


Pizza With a Friend

by srsly_yes



Series: Nobody Dies Today [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Finale, Sick Wilson, Wilson Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson travel to Arizona. Is it the end of a long story or the beginning of a new one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue & Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> At long last a sequel to "4300 Miles"; however, either can be read separately.
> 
> **Characters:** House/Wilson, mostly friendship, splashes of slash  
>  **Warning:** Post finale. Much angst, NO deaths, very little pizza, endless header.  
>  **Disclaimer:** [H]ouse isn’t mine and never will be. Medical, legal,  & geographical references were constructed from spandex. They support and shape the story where necessary.  
>  **A/N1:** Continuation of [4300 Miles](http://srsly-yes.livejournal.com/204582.html).  
>  **A/N2:** Thanks to everyone who commented on the [WIP meme](http://srsly-yes.livejournal.com/215245.html#comments). It kept me going. Special thanks to [](http://yarroway.livejournal.com/profile)[**yarroway**](http://yarroway.livejournal.com/) and [](http://cuddyclothes.livejournal.com/profile)[**cuddyclothes**](http://cuddyclothes.livejournal.com/) for their persistence.  
>  **A/N3:** I’m indebted to [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/) for providing House’s current alias.  
>  **A/N4:** Events are based on season eight’s broadcast dates, e.g. "Nobody’s Fault."  
>  **Beta:** Awesomely talented, encouraging, and patient [](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/profile)[**hwshipper**](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/). Extra hugs for creating a canon [timeline](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/38639.html).  
> 

**Prologue**

_1992_

_In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth, or what I call New Orleans._

~.~

.

**_Spring_**

 

“I made a decision,” Wilson said, the import of his announcement somewhat diminished by his efforts to mop rivulets of sweat off his forehead with a sock from the mismatch pile.

“About time,” House deliberately kept his voice light, while continuing to sort socks. “You were showing an unhealthy attachment to Tina Tumor.”

Wilson slid the paper to House’s side of the laundry table, plunking a frosty can of soda next to his elbow and then walked away. The note was neatly compressed into quarters, and presented like a job offer with an impressive salary—a numeral with a long line of zeroes trailing behind it like a strand of pearls.

Thirsty, but not wanting to show how eager he was, House rolled the cold can up the side of his neck before popping the pull-tab. Gulping greedily, he finished with a drawn out burp. Everyone he had met on the road said Arizona temperatures in May were kind, but the humidity from the Laundromat’s washing machines reminded him of a New Jersey summer.

House flapped the sheet of paper open with a pretentious snap of his wrist in case Wilson, who was slowly hand-feeding quarters into a dryer, was spying on him. One of the machines rumbled to life.

Of course, Wilson’s decision to try chemo meant more than anything. But he’d blown it once in Denver when Wilson balked at the idea. He wasn’t going to blow it again.

He was afraid the complete list of treatment centers would be dismissed under one heavily penned and angry slash, but tight little x’s in blue ink sat in the margin next to two locations. His relief mingled with interest at Wilson’s minimalist handwriting. Foreign to the usual backhanded flourish, they spoke of Wilson’s lack of commitment. “So it’s either the AARP endorsed clinic or the Funeral Director’s Association of America’s top number one.”

“Isn’t that what we agreed on?” Wilson eyebrows crinkled, visibly confused. “A quiet, out-of-the-way, decent clinic that serves a retirement community? Reasonably competent doctors who weren’t interested in promoting aggressive treatments? They’d be willing to go along with my choices, no questions asked.”

“That was the plan.” Better than nothing since it was all Wilson would consider. House felt satisfied that no one would raise eyebrows at either facility if he exhibited more than an average amount of medical knowledge on behalf of a friend. He felt a twinge of guilt that Wilson had to factor him in. “Which is it? Gray Panther Pastures or Shut-ins at the OK Corral?

“Found this on the bulletin board.” Wilson handed over a blue flyer. “It’s a small cottage near the Gray Panth—“ Wilson closed his eyes briefly as if praying for forbearance. “If it’s still available and we like it, I’ll go with that one.”

House read down the bullet points: _Guesthouse/studio accommodation on private property, all the comforts of home, two beds, air-conditioning, kiva fireplace, tile floors, wide-screen television, satellite dish, wi-fi, swimming pool, gourmet kitchen, compact washer and dryer._

The wide screen and technology appealed to him, but Wilson was probably drooling over the gourmet kitchen, washer and dryer, and easy clean floors.

He tossed the paper back. “Read between the lines. The place is a converted doghouse owned by a serial killer trying to lure lonely and dying OCD oncologists into his lair.” He shrugged one shoulder. “But what else do we have to do in this one-horse town for entertainment? Let’s check it out.”

“Lonely oncologist?” Wilson released a riotous pile of tangled t-shirts onto the table. “If that were true, then I’m folding a stranger’s clothes.” While absolutely straight-faced, he packed his own neat stack of laundry into his backpack and grabbed House’s boxers, cramming those in as well. Then he strolled to the door.

“Hey!”

“I’ll wait for you by the car.”

* * *

**Part 1**

_1992_

_You weren’t the only one who caught my eye. There was a woman, thin and willowy like Cameron, but you were prettier._

~.~

 

 

“This is the place?” House swung a hard right onto the driveway, passing through an arched wrought iron gate that could accommodate a Thanksgiving Day float. “I take it back about the serial killer. A cult runs this compound. Don’t drink anything that comes in unnatural colors and is served in little paper cups.”

“The woman on the phone said the rent was negotiable, but this has to be out of my budget.” Wilson held his phone in his hand. “Back up the car. I’ll tell her we found another place.”

“And lose out on an invitation to an orgy or meet the leader’s underage brides?” Slowing to an amiable crawl, the gravel crackling under the weight of the tires, House glanced occasionally to his right to view the accordion-pleated, flat-topped mountain range.

A half-mile in, he spotted a ranch-style home, a shrouded maiden tucked behind a bougainvillea-draped wall.

When he pulled up to the porte cochère, a stoop-shouldered woman bustled from the house. As soon as he had rolled down the window, she stuck her head in, flashing brilliantly white teeth. So close was she, the warmth of the sun radiated off her skin, carrying the faint scent of honey. Her complexion was composed of smooth planes and deep creases, and her hands were tattooed with age spots. It was impossible to reckon her age. A safe bet would be north of 80 and south of 800.

“Bienvenidos muchachos! I’m Mercedes. You’re here to see the guesthouse? Park where you are and follow me.”

She was twenty feet ahead before House’s foot touched the ground. Her sandals slapped rhythmically against the soles of her feet as he followed her down a dirt path edged with alien plant life, spindly and grayish-green.

With Wilson by his side, he entered a small, walled patio overrun by retina-burning geraniums in orange clay pots. Peering through the doorway, House saw the woman’s skirt flapping about her legs as she flew around the room, tidying and turning on lights.

The simple lines and earth-colored stucco exterior gave no hint of the airy, whipped cream interior House had only seen on the covers of chick magazines. The kind Wilson flipped through with feigned indifference while waiting to get his hair cut.

Wilson was doing his own inspection. The back of his neck disappeared into his collar as he checked the skylights, one on each side of a fan suspended from the center of the beamed ceiling. Lazily whirling overhead, it cast coy shadows onto the terracotta floor.

“Way out of our league,” Wilson whispered under his breath.

House was about to pounce onto the toasted marshmallow couch, when along came Mercedes, karate chopping the throw pillows lining the back cushions. “This was the original cottage when my husband and I bought the property,” she explained, not stopping until all the corners stood erect. “We gutted it and converted it into a guesthouse and art studio.

“There’s a king in the corner, and a futon that opens into a double bed near the side door.” She stood up and wiped stray gray hairs from her forehead. “Not that the two of you will need it.”

“I uh…” Wilson looked at him for an answer.

“What he’s trying to say is, we’re just friends.’” House said with a broad wink.

“Hou—“ Wilson suddenly broke off and coughed into his hand.

“I’m Edward Vogler,” House said, covering Wilson’s tracks. He slung his arm around his shoulder, immediately feeling the muscles tighten under the soft shirt. “And this is my bestie, James Wilson.”

“Besties without benefits?” she said, appraising them with skepticism. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, whether you’re in or out.” After they shook hands she went to a wall covered in shutters, folded them back, and opened the french doors. Cool air eddied through the room. “Northern exposure with a view of the mountains. Open every door and window, and you'll get the best breeze in the whole of Arizona.”

She put her hands on her hips, tilted her chin, and surveyed the craggy hills as if she had created them. “Manny was diagnosed with esophageal cancer at 83. He always wanted to try his hand at oil painting.” Her hand glided over her iron gray hair pulled back into a neat bun. “I was his model.” She sighed. “Cancer can be a blessing. It prioritizes what’s important in your life.”

Wilson's eyebrows knitted together at the news. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

“Don’t be.” My Manny beat it. Lived to 92.” Her blue eyes turned into fathomless pools. “Which one of you has it?”

Her face trained on Wilson as his posture stiffened.

Curiosity piqued, House asked, “How’d you know?”

“Two types of people rent my place. Cancer patients because of the nearby clinic and couples looking for a romantic hideaway.” Mercedes pointed to Wilson’s shirt pocket with the the slip of blue paper sticking out. “The pink flyer emphasizes the moonlit gardens and the Jacuzzi tub. The blue highlights the comforts of home.”

“Nice,” House said. The tough old bird got game. He walked around the guesthouse giving it the once over, approving of the big screen mounted over the fireplace. The bathroom did indeed have a Jacuzzi. It was large enough for two and surrounded with candles. Mercedes’ last guests must have been of the pink flyer persuasion.

After taking the full tour he noticed one item missing. A clock. He spun in a three-sixty to check again, coming to a dead stop in front of Mercedes who looked like she knew what he was thinking, and was about to pounce if he said a word. He allowed her the win and kept his mouth zipped. Measuring the passage of time was of little use to lovers or cancer victims.

The squeak of athletic shoes coming from the direction of the kitchen brought his attention to Wilson who was regarding the appliances in the postage-sized area, disappointment etched on his face. House realized why when he got closer. Hiding behind a cramped two-stool breakfast bar was a two-burner range, a microwave, and an under-the-counter fridge. “This isn’t a gourmet kitchen.”

“Most people don’t want to cook in the heat.” Mercedes picked up a pair of eyeglasses with black lenses from the counter. “Did you see the solar eclipse?”

“A partial. We were going to the Grand Canyon when… our car broke down in Tehachapi.” Wilson answered, resignation lacing his voice.

House shifted uncomfortably. Stuck in a motel with nothing to do he got stoned on alcohol and pills. They had lost a day while he sobered up, which left the eclipse forever unchecked on Wilson’s bucket list. “Hey, that heap had serious mileage and one bald tire. Twenty miles of rough road was too much for the engine. Didn’t I make it up to you by hauling your ass to that Colorado Springs pioneer cemetery you wanted to see?”

“At 100 miles per hour,” Wilson answered testily.

“Because whose tumor is ticking down to zero seconds?”

“Maybe you two do need the extra bed,” Mercedes said, breaking into their squabble.

Wilson turned his back and studied the mosaic tile backsplash as if he had found the Rosetta Stone.

Wilson always seemed to get caught in the crosshairs of his bad behavior. He thought he left it behind in the warehouse, but he had a relapse. Overmedicating was a theft of Wilson's time he couldn't afford to lose. House felt miserable about it, but no words could make it better. And they were losing more time spending the day looking at places that didn’t meet their needs. “About the blue flyer. This kitchen isn’t gourmet. It’s Easy-Bake.” The place was cool. He could live on breakfast cereal and peanut butter sandwiches, but if Wilson was unhappy…

Follow me.” Sandals once again softly clapping, Mercedes led them to the side door, past a bubbling fountain, and through a gate to the main house’s patio area. Gnarled olive trees provided dappled shade for lounge chairs surrounding a sparkling pool. She stopped in front of a stone half-wall inset with every kind of brushed stainless steel appliance imaginable. “Barbecue, smoker, gas stove, oven, pizza oven, double sinks, dishwasher. Will that do?”

House checked out Wilson. His eyes had gone soft focus. “Like you were reading his mind.”

“Do we have a deal? I don’t offer leases. Rent is month to month. Honeymooners can live here up to a year. Cancer patients until they’re cured.”

House looked at the ground.

Wilson cleared his throat. “A cure isn’t an option. I’m dying.”

Mercedes sniffed. “What makes you so sure?”

House tapped his cane against the ground. “He’s a doctor, an oncologist.”

“Dying,” she scoffed. She got close to Wilson. Nose-to-nose if it were possible, except the top of her head only reached his shoulders. “You know what’s wrong with you doctors? You know too much. You gotta live life day by day.”

House found her cockeyed optimism entertaining. “Listen to Ruth Gordon, Wilson.”

Mercedes whipped around, her finger wagging. “Mocking me won’t earn you even one night’s stay in _mi casita encantada_ , mister.”

“We can’t afford it anyway,” Wilson cut in.

“Who asked you?” Mercedes clucked. “Are you a rental agent?”

Wilson’s hand rose to the back of his neck. “No.”

“My financial planner?”

He shook his head.

“Then you aren’t qualified to tell me what I can or cannot do. I’ll work out a financial arrangement that’s fair for all of us. Grab your bags and settle in, boys.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_1992_

_The bail, your price tag, maxed out one of my credit cards. I was sure I’d live to regret the impulse._

~.~

.

 

**_Summer_ **

At the stoplight the soup can he was driving sputtered and shook, threatening to swoon dead away for the fourth time since they left the cancer center. Fingers on the ignition key should the engine die again, he shot a sidelong glance at Wilson, and was rewarded with a view of the back of his shiny, pink head covered by a baseball cap. The passenger window reflected his face. The dark eyes set against sharp cheekbones reminded him of a newborn chick. House could read disappointment in the glass.

On green he hit the gas, and the car bucked forward. He raced to the next intersection before the yellow light turned red and made a hard left. They were almost home.

Wilson flopped back in his seat. “I don’t know why…” his voice faded away as his finger rubbed his upper lip. “I knew there was no chance of the tumor shrinking, but…”

“Because you let Little Orphan Annie's grandmother fill your head with crap about the sun coming out tomorrow.” House hadn’t been immune to their landlady’s optimistic attitude either, no matter how much he tried. She radiated it like a neutron. He shoved his own disappointment aside in favor of saying something encouraging. “Toomee is undersized for his age. The chemo is doing its job.” God, he wasn't much better than Mercedes. All he needed were his pom-poms from his pep squad days. He cast another glimpse at Wilson.

At the doctor’s office, he acted unconcerned, pretending to listen to his iPod while Wilson consulted with his oncologist. He tried to breathe normally, ignoring the constriction in his chest when the doctor asked about scheduling the next round of chemo for that day. The wait was interminable until Wilson placed the scan and blood work on the desk, and nodded his head. 

Slowing down in the gravel drive, the car coughed to a stop under the carport.

Sweat beaded on their faces as the summer heat undid all the good that the air-conditioning had done. “We need a mechanic,” Wilson said, stating the obvious as his chemo induced zombie haze enveloped him. His rosy flush had turned a pasty hue.

“Did you ante-up your antiemetics this morning?” When his question was met with glassy eyes and hesitation, House pushed, “All three?”

Wilson slid his hand under his shirtsleeve protectively, touching what must have been a patch underneath. “I took the prescribed amount.” 

“Which means not enough. Not what the nurse recommended.”

“Jonathan is not an oncologist.”

“You of all people should know oncologists aren’t on the front lines cleaning up puke. Next time follow his instructions.”

“Yes, mom,” Wilson said sluggishly, paying back in small change House’s pet phrase. “Gonna lie down and rest. If you see Mercedes, fill her in?” 

“And break up the tender Harold and Maude relationship the two of have? You can tell her yourself.” House dangled a pharmacy bag. “Don’t forget your little friends.” 

Wilson heaved a sigh. “I know you looked inside. No comment about the dosage?”

“I get it. The scan scared you. You wanted bigger ammunition.” House stopped short when Wilson blinked but didn’t confirm his comment. There was something else. 

Before he could probe further, Wilson had swiped the bag and opened the door. “You coming in or heading out?” 

“In. Gonna check under the hood first.” He pointed to the bottle wedged on the passenger side. “Your water. Don’t forget it.”

With a slight downturn of his mouth indicating his exasperation at his chemo-challenged memory, Wilson knelt down and rescued it before shuffling the rest of the way to the cottage.

Gripping the steering wheel, House dropped his forehead against his hands. Slowing down cancer was like grappling with quicksand. He was losing Wilson by millimeters. Cancer wasn’t boring. Chemotherapy was.

***

Almost at the casita, pounding footsteps approached House from behind. He didn’t need to check who it was. He quickened his step, but his effort was a waste. Only coyotes could outrace her. A faded red cotton dress swirled in front of him, and there she was. Her blue eyes burned into him like an acetylene torch. “How did it go?”

House made a face as if he had swallowed a full bottle of hot sauce. “What belfry did you swoop from?” 

The woman was carved out of granite. She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. She wanted an answer.

House squinted at the mountains. “He’s still dying.”

Mercedes clucked her tongue. “We all are. Did he or did he not agree to continue?”

“Has he been crying on your shoulder?” House asked, suspicious. Wilson was his property. 

She shaded her eyes from the sun. “Can the alpha dog performance, Ed. I’m no cougar poaching on your territory. I’m just picking up the slack. He needs to talk, and I’m willing to listen.” 

House dropped his head to his chest. “Wilson has the misfortune of not having a listener for a best friend.”

“You think that makes you bad?”

“He needs a chauffeur, chef, chambermaid, and shrink. I can’t do them all.” 

She wiped a trickle of perspiration from her cheek and moved to the shade of a silver-leafed olive tree. “Does it come as a surprise? Illnesses test relationships. Everything you took for granted goes out the window.”

“You don’t understand.” Her steady, unblinking stare unnerved him. He jiggled his cane in explanation and frustration. “Our friendship was always skewed in my favor. I was the needy one.” 

House broke off from her gaze and surveyed the sky for any trace of clouds. He should walk away, but months had passed since he barged into Wilson’s office for a personal consult; he needed one now.

Since they left New Jersey, the more miles they had put behind them, the more Wilson had shirked his duties as House's moral compass. Lectures and nagging were reduced to a barbed question and sometimes even the stinger was removed. Wilson’s abdication was complete when the chemo kicked in. House knew one day the safety net would be yanked from under him, but not so soon. He was jonesing for shitloads of advice laced with strong shots of disapproval, which translated into the cornerstone of their friendship: Wilson caring and House manipulating.

“I don’t know how to convince him to hold on.” 

A pang of disappointment flitted through his chest when she just stood there, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip. 

“You gotta be patient.” 

“That’s it? Kumbaya?” Her hollow platitude was a joke. “This is my personal best. I’m Goddamned Job compared to what I was before we hit the road.”

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Instead of giving yourself a medal, you gotta raise the bar. The universe tests what we lack. Patience goes both ways, kiddo. You need it for James _and_ yourself.” She turned on her heel and walked to the bungalow. The audience with the queen bee was over.

In a few tipsy strides he caught up with her near the courtyard patio. She was snapping off spent geranium blossoms. “You didn’t wait for my answer. Wilson’s continuing.” 

She looked over her shoulder, eyes flashing with an inner spark of vitality. “You already told me.” Turning back, she fixated on a delinquent weed pushing through the pavers, and pulled it loose with the tenacious, ivory root still intact. And then with murderous intentions, tracked down its offspring. 

“No I didn’t.” He was dead certain of the fact.

She hummed tunelessly, plucking spindly, green threads from the soil with tweezers.

“I did something. What was it?” 

Her knees cracked as she straightened up. “It was the way you went off on my advice. You wouldn’t need patience if James hadn’t agreed to more treatments. “

“Is everything a binary code with you?”

“No. I’ve been around people long enough to read them.” Mercedes regarded him carefully. “Bet with that cocksure attitude of yours, you’re no slouch at sizing up folks. Just, when it becomes personal, you lose objectivity.”

His automatic antenna went up. “Did Wilson talk about me?” 

“Nope. If I so much as ask what you’re up to, he gets a sad frown and clams up.”

“Wilson was born sad.” 

“James is a loyal friend.” She dropped the plant debris in an empty flowerpot and brushed off her hands. “And so are you.”

He shifted awkwardly, uncomfortable with the praise.

“Well, it’s getting late,” she announced, wiping clinging pieces of stems and leaves from her clothing, and checking her watch. “And there’s a chicken in the oven that needs my attention or it will turn nasty.”

He nodded as she slipped past him, and then remembered she knew everybody in town. “Do you know a good mechanic?”

She spun around. “Sure. The best in the business, my grandson, Little Mike.” 

“Of course he is.”

Her lips puckered into a mass of fine wrinkles—a sign for him to shut up. She tilted her head in the direction of the dull, silver Camry. “Foreign cars aren’t his specialty, but he’ll fix it right up and only charge you for parts.”

Immediately, he had misgivings getting involved with her family but the price was right. “Where’s his shop?”

“No need to drive anywhere if you can wait for a couple of days. He comes every Thursday to work on Manny’s collection.” She stuck out her hand. “Leave the key with me so he can look under the hood first thing in the morning. He’ll stop by the casita later and tell you what needs to be done.”

“He might wake Wilson,” House said hastily, handing it over. He was dying to see what was inside the six-car garage ever since they arrived, but it was sealed tight and unbreachable. He had tested the locks. “You know how tired he gets after chemo. I’ll come over after breakfast.”

***

Cold air heavily dosed with Lysol spray greeted him inside the cottage. He sniffed deeply and wrinkled his nose. Wilson should have taken all the antiemetics.

Face ghostly and still fully dressed, Wilson dozed on the bed, his iPad resting in his outstretched hand. Fatigue must have overtaken him like a flash flood. 

House leaned over slowly, reaching for the tablet. Before he got there, his skin tingled from the warmth of long fingers curving around his wrist. Wilson was looking up at him.

“You’re supposed to wait for true love’s kiss, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Actually,” Wilson propped himself into a sitting position against the pillows, “there’s no benefit to kissing my hand. It’s my mouth or nothing.” 

“If I turn into a frog, who will do the cooking?” 

“Mercedes. She’s an excellent cook. There must be dozens of ways to prepare frog. I hear it tastes just like—“

“Chicken. It doesn’t.” House sat down on the edge of the bed. “What happened to us, Wilson? Weren’t we witty?”

“We’re not?” Wilson’s forehead wrinkled in mock dismay. He ran a hand through his invisible locks. “Not the summer vacation we had planned.”

“If my bestest friend didn’t get sick every two weeks, it would be the coolest summer ever.” 

Wilson offered a token fuzzy smile, which only made House miss the easy, toothy grin. It appeared infrequently since they settled in Arizona. But fuzzy smiles were noteworthy too. “Why the happy face?”

“Summers… and Danny. When we were kids, he’d tag along wherever I went. Even when I gave him the slip, he’d find me. My friends were put out, but Danny refused to stay home.”

“He didn’t get the message when you threatened him with an Indian burn or gave him a wedgie?” 

Wilson stared blankly for a second. “I never—“

“What kind of big brother were you?”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“You liked it,” House accused, and chewed on the information. Wilson was a well-oiled machine when he was lubricated with neediness. His lethargy might not be completely based on chemo and living in the Devil’s own frying pan. Role reversal could be a contributing factor. 

He rubbed his thigh to watch for a reaction; a flicker of concern flashed across Wilson’s face, but it was so faint, he might have imagined it. Swallowing more than his usual dose of pills was a surefire way to gauge Wilson’s listlessness and get a joyride thrown in for free, but he had hooked his cane on the breakfast bar when he walked in. Ever since the Oreo incident, Wilson’s crap detector had amplified. He might have noticed he wasn’t in terrible pain and pick up on the scam. A voice in his head was chirping, _Be patient_. House could bide his time.

“Mercedes ambushed me in the walkway.”

“Did you tell her? How’d she take the news?”

“As you’d expect.” House fidgeted with the oxygen mask hanging from the tank beside the bed and unwrapped the plastic tubing. ”When I told her your tumor was thriving, Unsinkable Molly Brown stuck her fingers in her ears and went lalalalala.” 

Wilson shrugged. “That’s her way.” 

“Our chat in the sun yielded something more than sweat. She gave me the name of a mechanic, Little Mike, her grandson.” House opened the valve and inhaled a heady breath of air, offering the mask to Wilson who waved it off and scowled, a conditioned response to dealing with his bad boy behavior for years. “Must be six foot five.”

“Or five foot six.”

“You wanna bet twenty bucks? On Thursday, he’s working on the cars stored in that plane hanger of a garage. Wanna come with?”

.

* * *

.

The deep, sea-blue Le Mans stripe on the hood was as seductive as a Princeton canal on a hot, sticky summer day. House could hardly peel his eyes away from the Shelby Mustang until a giant rolled out on a dolly from underneath the chassis. 

Considering what to buy with the twenty, he filed it under “later” when he saw Little Mike’s face. The man was the spitting image of Charlton Heston climbing down from the Mount. But larger. He towered over them. He spared a glance at Wilson who must have spotted the resemblance because he was deliberately avoiding eye contact and studiously attempting to keep a straight face.

“Hey.” The giant stuck out a friendly paw, and motioned to House’s cane before pumping his hand. “You must be Ed.” He did the same with Wilson, but a little less vigorously. “And you’re James. Good to meet you. What with you being a doctor, the family’s beholden to you for renting the casita. Gram’s slowing down. We don’t like her living alone.”

“Yep, your grammy is a frail flower,” House answered. Judging by the gray hair and texture of Little Mike’s skin on his neck, he was a card-carrying member of AARP too. House once again pondered Mercedes’ age, and decided it was a ripe time to go fishing. “She’s doing well for someone not a day over a hundred-and-one.” 

“Ed,” Wilson said, with his “I’m warning you,” voice. Any member of his team would have known whom Wilson was addressing with that tone, regardless of the name.

“Is that what she told you?” Little Mike broke into a baritone laugh straight from his diaphragm. “I wouldn’t believe her. Gram won’t divulge her real age to anyone.”

“How old do you…?” 

Wilson spoke through gritted teeth. “Not now, Ed, we’re here about the car?”

“No major problems with the engine,” Little Mike jumped in with an amiable smile. “It needs new hoses, sparkplugs, oxygen sensor. More importantly, your front rotors need replacing.” He shoved a paper into Wilson’s hand. House craned his neck to see. The price for parts would cut into their monthly budget. No steak and premium ice cream for two months.

Wilson blew out a breath. “If it has to be done, it has to be done. How long will it take?”

“About a week. I’ll work on it in my spare time.”

The idea of being restricted to the cottage reminded House of his ankle monitor. “We can’t be without a car.” 

Wilson lightly bumped shoulders, as if to say he understood. “Do you know where we can rent one?”

“No need. You can use any of these. As a matter of fact, you’d be doing me a favor if you took Gram’s cars out for drives.” Mike folded back an accordion door, which separated the workshop from the rest of the space. It opened onto a classic car showroom, right down to the high-polished terrazzo floors. Overhead fans blended the aroma of wax, chrome polish, leather soap, and rubber into a spicy, seductive new car scent. “The older cars like the Cad and T-bird are retrofitted with air conditioning; you don’t have to wait for winter.” 

House lurched past the petite, turquoise ’57 Thunderbird, and a ‘65 black Corvette Stingray, and came to a complete stop. “My God, Wilson. Feast your eyes on the DeLorean.” 

Wilson stepped back to view her sleek lines, but his arms were folded defensively against his chest as if tractor beams might suck him in and send him to a very bleak future. 

“And we’re walking.” House gave the car one last look before rounding the fender to the next car, a massive '48 Cadillac convertible painted a rich sea-green. A beauty. He was beginning to fall head-over-heels for it, except another hot number arrested his attention. There, in all her glory was a juicy, cherry red ‘66 Ford Galaxie 500 convertible. He put his hand over his heart and bowed his head. “My Holy Grail.” 

“Be careful. You’re drooling,” Wilson’s gently admonished. 

“Drooling is for school kids. Wearing condoms should be mandatory.” 

Little Mike flashed a big grin, exposing shiny Chiclet teeth. “I’ll pass your suggestion on to Gram.” 

“Or you can opt to ignore what he says.” Wilson sidled up to Little Mike. “That’s what most people do.” 

“Gram will be disappointed if I return without, what she describes as, a Volgarism.” He took hold of the hood ornament. “Want to see what makes this baby run?” Little Mike popped it before either of them could answer.

White glove clean and dolled up with chrome valve and air cleaner covers, the engine sparkled like it was ready for a car show. “She’s a sexy beast,” House said with barely controlled lust. While Mike rattled off a series of impressive statistics, he ran his hand gently over the lustrous enamel finish until he reached the cab.

Listening with only a half an ear to Little Mike’s list of her virtues, House sank into the leather, savoring the solid thump some unknown genius engineered into the door.

The expanse of the hood was as impressive viewed from inside the car as standing outside. “She’s the fucking Titanic.” Hands on the wheel, he was accelerating to 90 on an imaginary highway.

“She’s in tip-top condition except for the clock. Starts and stops for no reason. Otherwise she’s reliable. Why don’t you two take her for a spin?” 

“Now?” House answered as the garage door purred open onto an endless horizon. 

“Catch!” 

His fingers closed upon the cold metal of the ignition key. A cloudy thought momentarily dampened his exhilaration as he realized Wilson wasn’t up for any exertion, and then there was a heavy thunk. Wilson was warming the leather bucket seat next to him, wearing an expectant, if not overly eager expression on his face.

“Top up or down?” House asked, willing Wilson to say down, morning heat or no. 

Wilson’s response was to crush the crown of his cowboy hat tightly to his head and cinch the leather strap under his chin. House took that as a yes. 

“Mike.” House waved at a stacked flat of water bottles. “Can you toss us a couple of those?” 

After they'd driven past the gate and were safely out of earshot he asked Wilson, “So, if that’s Little Mike, how tall do you think Big Mike is?”

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you begin reading, I'd like to warn that this chapter is melancholic, which gives it 4 to 4-1/2 out of 5 stars on the angst scale. I promise the next chapter will be lighter (also shorter), but it's not like House and Wilson will start doing jigs or anything.
> 
> ***

_1992_

_You stank of stale beer, but there wasn’t a wrinkle in your suit. You ran your hand self-consciously over your cheek as if you had forgotten to shave before going on a blind date._

~.~

.

 

“If there is a Big Mike.” 

“Of course there is.” House aimed the car toward the mountains and veered right when the road forked. “’Big’ begs a comparison.”

Wilson gulped down water from his bottle. “Don’t rule out irony.”

“In the Grand Canyon state? Where we live in a casita next to la casa grande?” He pressed harder on the gas as the car tackled the steep incline.

“If it’s a comparison, it doesn’t have to be based on height. It could relate to a specific part of the anatomy.” Wilson seemed to realize a beat too late what he said. “Like hands or feet.”

“Prove you graduated medical school and repeat after me, peee-niss.” House grinned mischievously. “If you want to win your twenty back, I dare you to ask Mister Brawny about his little dick.”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forget it.” He gazed out the side window. “Do you have any idea where you’re going?”

“Up a mountain.” 

“Helpful.” Wilson nodded. “Forgive me if I don’t cancel my automobile club membership.” He slumped in his seat and stared silently out the window, white-knuckling the door handle whenever the car swung into a narrow-shouldered, outer curve.

The morning air and higher altitude tempered the valley’s furnace. It was good to hold the steering wheel without it feeling like his palms were roasting over an open flame. House relaxed and stayed on the right side of the double yellow line, occasionally ogling outcroppings of raw rock blushing a dusty rose, or a sudden reveal of stately saguaros standing sentry over sword-tongued yuccas and humble tufts of blue-gray sagebrush.

Almost at the top, the smell of asphalt stung his nostrils. House cursed under his breath as he neared a flagman in an orange vest with a hand sign signaling him to stop for a grimy, yellow dump truck lumbering across the lanes.

Right before resuming normal speed, a historical marker loomed into view, and Wilson bristled like a wet-nosed, wire terrier. "Let's stop."

House tightened both hands on the steering wheel. Ever since his decision to do chemo, a bizarre symbiosis had occurred between Wilson and national landmarks. Macabre tourist attractions materialized on every road and highway, and Wilson demonstrated a dogged determination to explore each one. 

“Is this a must-see? I want to get to the peak and down by noon.” 

“House, it’s right off the road. It’ll take less than five minutes.” 

“It won’t. It never does,” he grumbled. “You’ll read the commemorative plaque and need a time out to blubber over some sad story about pioneers or Indians taking turns massacring each other.” But he had already swung into a parking space. “Make it snappy.” 

Wilson’s “snappy” was more of a “mosey,” but he made up for it with the brevity of his conversation. 

House hung back while Wilson perused the stone marker. Hoping the information would satisfy his curiosity, he leaned on the hood and idly jangled his keys. Nope. A visual was still worth more than raised letters on an eroded, bronze plaque. Wilson trudged behind a pack of itchy-fingered, camera toting tourists to the scenic view at the end of the turnout. 

House heaved a breath, shoved away from the car, and joined the crowd. The patch of ground promised very little. It was a space no more than a car width, flanked by towering spires of rock resembling bloodstained, jagged dinosaur teeth. A little beyond the natural monoliths was a knife-edged drop-off into a ravine. Dramatic as hell, it plunged into a murky gloom so dense it swallowed up light. He supposed cluttering up the view with an iron safety rail was considered by the locals to be disrespectful of the surroundings.

Wilson, his once snug fitting t-shirt flapping in the breeze created by the wind tunnel, stood uncomfortably close to the precipice. His head tilted down in deep contemplation. As House drew near, a current of air frantically pummeled his back, accompanied by a low, tuneless howl.

“It’s believed Aztecs practiced human sacrifice here,” Wilson said, his voice flat. 

“Believed, but not a known fact. It could have been an ancient lover’s leap or the local garbage dump.” A furious gust of wind whistled by his ear and Wilson swayed. House grabbed the bony wrist and held tight. They stood without moving for what felt like an eternity until Wilson gave him a strange look. House released it. 

Head down, Wilson sauntered silently back to the car and stared mutely at the scenery during the final leg of their expedition, which was fine with House. The painted centerline disappeared when the road tapered to one lane and grew sharply steeper, requiring all of his attention. 

He slowed as he drove past another marker and into a dirt lot, where the road dead-ended. They had reached the top, or more precisely, a craggy terrace.

He and Wilson shied away from the stone observation tower and the steady stream of tourists hogging the telescopes. House noted Wilson’s fatigue as he headed straight to a wooden bench. His shoes left a dust trail as they scraped against the dry earth. He plopped down like he had just gotten off a double shift. His fingers rested on his chest, breathing taking precedence over the vista. 

House walked the perimeter, spying at oddly shaped rock formations in the distance, square-masted sea vessels trapped in a waterless sea. The clear sky, blue as a robin’s egg, filled him with a sense of euphoria and freedom he rarely felt. He drew in a deep breath and held it, fancying the gentle breeze carrying him off like a weightless balloon. 

A machine-gunned cough splintered the moment, bringing him down to earth. Looking wildly about, he checked if it were Wilson. No. He sat head bowed, like a monk at prayers. But at the other end of the bench was a pint-sized whirlwind wriggling in and out of her mother's lap. She punctuated her kinetic energy with deep, croupy blasts. 

House stalked over and commandeered the middle ground, giving the woman a benign but toothy smile he had perfected with Nora. “Do you mind?” He swung his arm onto the wood slat behind Wilson. “This is “our” bench.” 

The mother grabbed her little buzz saw and bustled off.

House swallowed down a dry lump in his throat. “Have you lost all sense of self-preservation?” 

Startled, Wilson’s head shot up. “Huh?” He fumbled with his phone, sliding it into his shirt pocket. “What are you pissed off about?” 

“Girlzilla was a wild card. Why didn’t you walk away as soon as the barking seal and her mother joined you?”

“She wasn’t near me.”

“And she’d never dream of coming over.” House parroted harsh hacking noises inches from Wilson’s face. “Hey Mister, whatcha doin’?” _Hawnk_. “Is that Angry Birds? _Ha-Hawnk_. Can I play?” House lunged for Wilson’s phone, because why not get a good look at it while he drove home his point. Wilson beat him to it and transferred it to his pants. Sneaky bastard.

“Okay, you’re right. I'm off my game.” Wilson gave him an embarrassed smile, not quite looking him in the eye. “I’m used to working around sick kids.” 

House sucked in his breath. “You have to remember you’re the number one sick kid.” 

The earlier elation deflated to a waspish fizzle. House leaned back and scanned the pastel landscape with dimmed enthusiasm. Wilson had the power to do that. He always had. Even when House didn’t show it, Wilson’s lifted eyebrow, pointed finger, explosive torrent of words, or escaped tear could influence a decision or change his mood.

A fine silver thread glittering in the far distance offered a distraction. “There’s the interstate we drove in on.”

Wilson nodded, his eyes already trained on the headlights. His hand went again to his chest. “The Promised Land,” he said softly, almost under his breath.

A sudden, nasty shout-out from his leg spurred House to massage his thigh as he translated the biblical reference into dark pop culture currency, _Two men enter, one man leaves_. “Nothing promising about it, Moses,” he answered gruffly. “We saw what was out there.”

A pill bottle magically appeared. Wilson carefully shook two halved tablets from the container. “Here. Your leg’s bothering you.”

They were from the extra-strength prescription, split cleanly down the center. He closed his eyes as the gentle warmth spread into the surrounding muscle and screaming nerves. Another kind of warmth invaded his thoughts. Wilson still cared. How could he harness and use it so Wilson willingly changed into a model patient? But first, he wanted to get to the bottom of the halved pills. “No one plays heavy metal music at half-volume. The same goes for drugs. What are you up to?”

“Testing Bishop,” Wilson answered, eyes forward. “He’s our guy. Wrote the scrip, no questions asked. Didn’t check how many refills were left. This way we have enough for both of us.”

With the tip of his cane, House plowed the gravel into evenly spaced troughs. “Reducing the chance of blowing my cover at a clinic while you stockpile for the future. Well done.” 

“I never thought I’d be reduced to scoring painkillers and stashing them for a rainy day.” Wilson’s sighed wearily. “Don’t you miss the open road, House? Our bikes? We barely scratched my bucket list.” 

“And miss the opportunity of living inside a tandoori oven?” House studied Wilson, head lowered, a picture of misery. He’d top the shortlist for mercy killings. House angled his head sideways. Wilson’s body language was photo op perfect, a rehearsed blend of truth and deceit. The glum fucker was playing him the way he played Bishop. Wanting his blessing to squirm out of treatments.

“Besides the emetic regimen, what other pills are you skimping on?”

Wilson refused to look him straight in the eye. “What are you getting at?”

“They were _all_ prescribed for a reason, in proper doses, including antidepressants.”

“Oh. Those.” Wilson hugged his arms tightly to his chest and sprawled his legs.

House couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Don’t pout like a sixteen year old.”

“You should talk. You’re perpetually half that age.”

House rolled his eyes heavenward. He missed his Peter Pan days, but he had left them behind him when he crossed the New Jersey state line. 

“Alright.” House thumped his cane. “Things aren’t working as they should. We tried it by the book.” Wilson’s head shot up, suspicion written over his face. “Neither of us are ideal patients, but we’re a helluva couple decent doctors. It’s time for a game change. 

“No reason we can’t take day trips or overnighters between your chemo appointments as long as I monitor you, and you tell me immediately if any symptoms or side effects crop up. We can explore purple mountain majesties and drop by the funky museums and attractions we missed on our way to California. Anything you’re _dying_ to see?”

Wilson scrubbed at his face, not answering. The line was baited, but no bites. 

“What about when you were a kid? Any childhood fantasies?”

“When I was six I wanted to run away from home and join the circus.” Wilson smirked. “Forty years later I got half my wish.”

“No chance getting the last half. Too many germs… I mean people.”

Wilson’s hand flapped restlessly in his lap but didn’t say anything. 

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“There’s something. Whaaaat?”

Wilson took off his sunglasses; his face squinched into some kind of mysterious expression that had House calculating how fast an ambulance could drive up a winding mountain road, but then he spoke. “What you have to ask yourself is—“ 

House kept a straight face. “—do I feel lucky?” This was too good not to pull Wilson’s leg. “You wanted to be the mayor of Carmel?”

“Sure. Every kid’s dream.” And now the hands were flying. “Of course not. I wanted to be a tough guy.” Another facial contortion. “A bad hombre.” 

“How did you ever find the time to watch Eastwood while busting moves to Abba and preparing cakes in your Easy Bake Oven?”

“Thanks for your understanding, House,” Wilson said with a touch of his old asperity. Seconds ticked away until he arched a hairless eyebrow. “So you think we could continue our road trip on a smaller scale?”

“And do it in style, if Little Mike was serious about giving us the pick of the garage.” Wilson almost smiled. The fish was tugging on his line. “Are you in?” 

“Yeah, I’m in.” 

“There’s just one thing.”

“I shoulda known.” Wilson shook his head.

House took a deep breath. “From now on all our meds are kept in the open, or if that bumps heads with your OCD, the medicine cabinet. We take what’s prescribed, no more, no less. You check mine, and I’ll check yours.” Other than masturbating in the shower, this was breaching their last bit of privacy. It was a lot to ask, and a lot to sacrifice but Wilson’s knowledge of drugs was the equivalent of handing him a loaded gun. 

“Very egalitarian. After all these years, the idea never occurred to you to be upfront about your drugs, only when I’m on them.” There was no mistaking the sharp edge in Wilson’s voice. It gave House that toasty, fuzzy feeling he was yearning for.

“It’s a once in a lifetime offer. I had to wait for the right moment.”

Wilson ran his hand over his mouth, a sign he was mulling over the proposition. “Where’s the quid pro quo? You get all your meds through me. I know exactly how much you take.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then how do you account for this one?” House brandished his empty hands in the air, then struck a magician’s pose by swiping one hand past the other. “Ta-dah!” He held a halved tablet between his thumb and index finger.

Wilson went slack-jawed and then his mouth stiffened into a thin line. He was working up a full head of steam. “Why? All you needed to do was ask.” 

House smiled slyly and shrugged. “Old habits. But I no longer need to hoard meds as long as you stay on chemo, do I?”

“House,” Wilson said, in a tone that revealed he had put two and two together but wouldn’t accept four as the answer. 

He prodded again. “We have a deal or not?” By cashing in on Wilson’s caring, he had given away too much information about his own plan for the future. However, given Wilson’s hesitancy, an excessive number of dangling carrots were also necessary. He waved toward the glittering strand of headlights below. “Say the word and tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it, that will be us.”

Wilson closed his eyes and mumbled something about blackmail.

“Come again?” House clapped a hand to his ear. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Alright,” Wilson said in a clipped tone.

House pushed off the bench, and lent Wilson his hand. “Let’s giddy-up back to the ranch.”

***

Even in reflective white, the leather upholstery would have blistered his ass if it weren’t for his jeans. He quickly turned on the air and aimed a vent at the sweating steering wheel while he located the control that raised the convertible’s top. By the time they were out of the parking lot the Galaxie was a haven of cool comfort. Wilson was curled between the seat and door, his eyelids drooping.

A quiet ride not requiring him to think three steps ahead was exactly what he wanted. And he got it until he reached the rough strip under repair. The trucks were immobile, parked at the side while the workmen broke for lunch. The tires of his car ground out a low thrum and his teeth vibrated as they drove over the freshly textured surface.

House spared a glance toward the passenger’s side. Wilson was awake and wearing his patent pending perturbed expression. 

Muscles formed a knot in the back of his neck when he heard Wilson voice, low and taut. The crap detector had keyed in on a signal, some unknown tell. “You’ve been here without me.”

“The Abyss of Love?” House shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.“

Wilson was upright and alert. “Don’t lie. How many times?”

A series of hairpin turns gave House breathing room to cobble together a credible answer. Counting today, he had visited three times. The first, like any tourist, was idle curiosity. The second, when his thoughts had taken a dark turn and he went back to inspect its suitability. What better place for a dead man off the grid to go? Take one step and tumble forever into a bottomless void. But there was a malevolent atmosphere about the place that he couldn’t shake off. And he didn’t like the idea of sightseers peering into his grave and snapping photos. “Is it necessary to have this discussion while I’m driving?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Once.” 

Wilson appeared skeptical. “Your hobby is self-destruction and that pit is mysterious and dangerous. House, I worry about you.”

“That’s no longer your job.”

“H-how can I not?” Wilson spluttered, an ominous rasp bubbled up from his throat and blossomed into a full-blown coughing jag. Face turning purple, he doubled over. 

Reaching for his phone, House pulled off to the soft shoulder. He had pressed ‘9’ when Wilson held up his hand and sank back into the seat, closing his eyes. His breath was ragged but no longer out of control.

House sat stiffly, studying the rise and fall of Wilson’s chest, listening to the irregular respirations until they smoothed. Finally, the only sound was the hiss of the air conditioning.

Wilson blinked open his eyes and cleared his throat. “I could go for a drink. Let’s find a bar.”

“You don’t touch alcohol anymore, remember chemo brain?”

“What happened to the two doctors speech?” Wilson licked at his chapped lips. “I’m prescribing a beer.”

***

Wilson wiped the drop of foam from his upper lip. “There’s been something on my mind, and after seeing you near that hellhole, I don’t want to put off saying this any longer. I know your life is messed up— “

“Here we go.” House said warily. Scoping out the bar for a distraction, he feigned interest in a baseball game. It took all his willpower to act unconcerned. The coughing fit had shaken him. Wilson cared. He never stopped. But he didn’t have the stamina to fight the tumor and put up with the push-pull of House’s experiments. Starting tomorrow, he would stick to higher ground—road trips and Wilson’s bucket list.

“House?”

“Drop it, Wilson.”

“My cancer contributed to wrecking your career. I don’t want you to throw away what’s left of your life. You’re signed on my accounts. Medicine is out, but there are dozens of things you can do when I’m gone.” 

“I said stop.” 

Wilson’s hand was on his arm. “I know making you promise not to kill yourself would be a waste of my time.” He spoke urgently, just above a whisper, “Hear me out. I had five months to live when we left New Jersey. Because of you I’ll live longer. I’m not completely happy with the decision, but I’m not keen on dying.” Wilson hesitated, and then did his puppy impersonation. 

House closed his eyes to block the sight. 

“All I want, all I’m asking… is when I’m gone, hang on for another five months. Party with hookers, go for another diving record from a hotel balcony into a pool. For all I care, hire a ninja assassin or plan your Viking funeral.” Wilson wagged his finger in warning. “But no jumping off sacrificial cliffs or offing yourself before five months. Agreed?”

“You expect I’ll get over any grief and change my mind in the span of five months?”

“Why not?” Wilson looked uneasy. He worked his mouth as if to say something but stopped short. Instead, he held his glass aloft in a toast, and looked at him inquiringly.

House considered the proposal. Ninjas and burning pyres. Wilson had a flare for the dramatic he had never known about. He had already ruled out A-Long-Days-Journey-to-the-Center-of-the-Earth, and Wilson wasn’t pushing him to give his word. So what was the worst that could happen if he didn’t wait the full five months and shaved off a month or four? 

“Agreed.” He clanked his half-empty glass against Wilson’s.


	4. Chapter 4

_1992_

_Your mouth twitched when I called you Jim. You weren’t seasoned enough to carry off Jimmy. By the way you winced, your ball-and-chain must have called you James. I refused to call you Evan._

~.~

.

 

Past lunchtime, House was starving when he swung the T-bird into the restaurant’s parking lot, slowing so the tires didn’t skid or kick up sand and ding the car's lustrous paint.

The glare from the sun bounced off the cafe’s polished aluminum art deco trim. Eye-catching from the road, close up the facade was a tired, mid-century stucco with a Robbie the Robot facelift. A windowless side wall was festooned with top-to-bottom hubcaps. Facing the afternoon sun, it looked like it was set on fire. Faded paper signs plastered the storefront windows shouting about air-conditioned splendor and daily specials. Friday’s was fried clams. Anyone ordering it must have a death wish.

“You’re not going inside wearing those ridiculous sunglasses?” Wilson asked, sounding appalled.

House looked in the rearview mirror, turning from side to side to better admire his new shades. The lenses soared past his eyebrows, almost reaching his hairline, and were rimmed in glorious chartreuse. “Why not?” He unfolded out of the car and stretched. “They proclaim my extreme taste in fashion.”

“You look like a psychedelic ant, which is outside any fashion spectrum.” 

House leisurely dislodged a pill from its container, spilling it into his hand. Given that Wilson’s head was adorned with a conservative tan cap embroidered with a little green man, and clutched a matching silk-screened water bottle for dear life in his hand, he deserved a good comeback. About to deliver a scathing fashion critique he was stopped short by Wilson’s concerned expression.

“We should have taken a bigger car.” 

“Nah. Just a twinge.” Which was true. His leg had been behaving for days. A Vicodin would nip the pain before it went viral. Besides, it was too late to change their mode of transportation. 

He swallowed the tablet, and brushed a droplet of sweat from his forehead. Wilson just stood there, arms dangling by his side, looking unconvinced and helpless. “This little beauty is as sweet as a kitten and has more than enough legroom.” After the two of them had sat for hours squeezed in like sardines, who was he kidding? The car resembled Cuddy in size and temperament—petite and headstrong. “Okay, we didn’t think this through. The next time we go for a long trip we take a roomier car. Happy?” There was a brief nod. “Let’s get inside before we dehydrate into cuboctahedral blocks.”

“It’s gonna be non-stop sci-fi references all the way home, isn’t it?” Wilson said, switching back to his put-upon persona. He sidestepped the revolving door in favor of the standard one to its right. 

“Why stop when we get home? To infinity and beyond, dude.” House thought he heard a huffed sigh.

Inside he ran into Wilson’s back. He had halted abruptly, mesmerized by something. House shifted sideways to get a better look. Two man-sized motorized carousels loaded with dozens of “alien” sunglasses in a kaleidoscope of colors ogled them as they spun slowly. All the colors that a Sherman Williams color specialist could mix were on display except chartreuse. “Like the tour guide said at the UFO museum’s gift shop, these beauties are 'Often imitated but never duplicated'.”

“Other than you,” Wilson said, shaking his head, “who would buy these?” 

A scantily clad waitress in a short, neon pink uniform displaying an abundance of leg showed them to a booth. The alien glasses matching her outfit saved House the trouble of a reply. 

 

.

The cheeseburger, fries, and shake (served in a tall, metal canister) not only looked like the fifties but had the homey, greasy, genuine high caloric taste of the fifties. House wolfed down his food and watched disgustedly as Wilson pecked at his fried chicken, _after_ fastidiously cutting away the crispy skin. 

The nibbling had to stop. The list of foods Wilson shouldn’t eat, couldn't eat, and wouldn't eat, put a dent in each meal. A large moon-faced scale loomed over Wilson’s head, the pointer plunging steadily down. It was taking the edge off House’s appetite.

Hunger, fatigue, and irritation reduced the conversation to digestible sound bites about how far they had driven, and how much longer it would take to get home. He was salting the last of his fries when Wilson shattered the peace.

“I want my ear pierced.”

House stopped what he was doing. “Whoa there buckaroo. Where did that come from?”

“You asked about my bucket list.”

“That was weeks ago.” He beckoned for the ketchup. Wilson obliged and slid it over. “Is this Kyle Calloway, Part 2?”

“No. I gave it a lot of thought, and I want one of those…” Wilson twiddled his fingers near his ear. “Uh…”

House gawked and let him suffer for a few seconds before supplying, “You already said... an earring.”

“Yes, but you know, one of those round, uh, twirly thingies.”

“You mean a hoop,” House pointed a fry at the hairless face, “thingy. You want to risk infection to look like Mr. Clean’s scrawny brother?”

Wilson shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t start with the apocalyptic metaphors or hyperbole. It’s a pinprick.”

“I don’t have to. The facts are, you want to bore a hole into a part of your immunocompromised anatomy and insert a foreign object, which in the healthiest person wouldn’t heal for six weeks. Your cancer will do the hyperbolizing for me.” 

Wilson turned a whiter shade of pale and cast a downward glance at his plate, busily pushing the bits of chicken back and forth. Another sulk was brewing. 

House propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. It was gonna be a long ride home.

“House,” Wilson said gently, the corner of his mouth twisting upward, showing off his dimple. “We’re not talking about one of your patients with a mysterious disease. Several of my younger patients surprised their parents and me by showing up for chemo wearing  
earrings. It broke protocol but was manageable.”

No silent treatment after all. The rat bastard chose to romance him instead. And it was working. “You're not an impetuous fourteen year-old g-guh—girl. What am I saying? You are. And I'll beat up the first teenage boy who asks you to the prom.”

Wilson beamed, taking the response as agreement. By the way the fork bounced in his hand, he was clearly looking forward to carrying out his stupid idea. Perhaps he would come to his senses if he had more time. 

“Oh, I can see it in your eyes.” House pointed his finger. “You’re already planning ice-cream cake and mani-pedis for the slumber party.” He sucked down the shake until he hit bottom and the straw rattled with air. “Don’t. We’re not going ahead until your blood count is higher.” 

The scowl that appeared was priceless, but Wilson’s expression quickly softened. “Has anyone told you, you can be a real pain in the ass?” 

“Not lately.” House arched an eyebrow. “I must be losing my touch. You’ll thank me later for reining in your daredevil tendencies.” He pinched a glob of batter-encrusted skin, chewing slowly. He caught sight of the T-bird’s porthole through a small patch of window uncluttered by signage. Tilting his head to see more, the chrome and turquoise paint swam and shimmered in the intense afternoon heat.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Due to language, this chapter is rated R.
> 
> * * *

.

_1992_

_In order to infiltrate your mint-in-box Barbie doll exterior I took you to dinner. Two courses in, I was about to write you off as a loss, but on your third glass of wine you scoffed at my bullshit with the skill of a professional hit man wielding a stiletto. I poured more…_

~.~

.

****  
****  
**_Fall_**  
  


_Ve'esarei, Ush'vuei, Vacharamei, Vekonamei, Vekinusei, Vechinuyei…_

House swore he wouldn’t go in, but disabled parking was close to the entrance where he could hear the beseeching melody of the Kol Nidre. He gave Wilson props for finding the one cantor in Arizona who was an operatic tenor and knew how to wring the heart and soul out of every minor key. 

Music this good deserved to be listened to inside, in air-conditioned comfort. But one foot past the threshold, he hesitated. Wasn’t he really going in because he wanted to see if Wilson's act of piety, to re-up with the Chosen People, was on the up-and-up? Or was he flat-out worried—not trusting Wilson to avoid blending in with the worshipers, or overexerting and standing every time the Rabbi commanded the congregation to rise. 

_Fuck it._ House boldly walked in clutching his Catch 22 card. It was Yom Kippur. Wilson would have to suck up his annoyance or risk ending up on God’s naughty list. 

In the sanctuary, Wilson was alone and in no dire danger. House hung back, leaned against the wall, and listened until the cantor finished. 

Wilson hadn't been hard to spot. He was an island surrounded by a sea of empty folding chairs—the cheap seats set aside for non-members or for the overflow of black sheep guilted into coming for the High Holy day services. The pious had judged him, consciously or not, as sick and weak, and spread out, creating a cootie zone; the same people who would have run to him with their lumps and irregular moles. 

Wilson was the odd man out. He resembled Uncle Fester with his gleaming bald head and sunken eyes. From there, the similarity took a freakish turn. Mercedes had dug out of a closet one of Manny’s suits. The brown serge hung like a hopsack on a scarecrow. In healthier times Wilson would have amply filled it.

A small yarmulke perched on his head and a fringed prayer shawl fell crookedly from his shoulders. Neither of which were Wilson’s and must have been on loan. The only part of the wardrobe that was his were hastily bought black sneakers, a snowy white dress shirt, and a fatally unattractive, striped tie. Struggling with the responses in rusty Hebrew, Wilson looked unusually humble.

Which prompted House to do his damnedest to tear down the invisible wall erected between Wilson and his disdainful neighbors. He knocked his cane into every rickety chair, causing the legs to scrape discordantly against the floor, blighting the service for everyone in the back rows and attracting a mob of dirty looks. 

Wilson didn’t scold him, but didn’t look amused. 

“Are you about done?” House asked in his whiniest voice, giving his chair one last bump before sinking into it. The faint smell of musty wool and mothballs prickled his nose.

Wilson harrumphed a deep sigh and checked his watch. “There’s more than an hour left. Go back to the car. Play with your new Nintendo.”

"Okay." He pulled the game from his pocket and flicked it on. The sounds of whistling ammo surged from the tiny speakers. Only after Wilson lunged unsuccessfully for it did he switch to mute.

“Are you out of your mind? Not here,” Wilson hissed. 

“Hush. You’re making a scene.” Under a barrage of spluttered vowels and half-formed words, House returned the handheld to his pocket and brought out a giant Snickers bar, wrestling with the crackling plastic-paper.

“What the hell are you doing? Eating in the sanctuary isn’t allowed, ever. And it’s a day of fasting.”

House made a show of biting off a hunk of the pungent peanutty and chocolate goodness, chewing close to Wilson’s rapidly greening face. 

He looked up at the ceiling. “Hey God, we need a ruling. Who’s worse? A gentile eating in your house or a Jew cursing?”

While Wilson looked on open-mouthed, the candy was ripped from House's hand and an insistent shush next to his ear almost made him jump out of his seat.

Behind him was one of the ushers, a retired dockworker from the river Styx. Wrinkled and perpetually bent over, the old man had almost shrunk to the size of a walnut. Deep folds bracketed his mouth and his hazel eyes were stained light blue, showing early signs of cataracts. 

A knobby, trembling hand alighted on his shoulder. “People are praying. Take your talk for a walk, outside.” The gruff little speech was tinged with a mild Polish accent.

Wilson cleared his throat and pushed to a standing position. House did too, expecting they’d walk out together, but Wilson offered him and the usher a sheepish smile and nodded toward the exit. “House, you better go.” 

“Traitor,” House mumbled in a stage voice loud enough for everyone to hear, but Wilson’s head was already buried in his prayer book. 

The old man attached his hand onto House’s upper arm like a vice, and escorted him outside. He expected a scolding, but was surprised when the old man gave him a friendly pat on the back. 

“Look, you don’t understand. My friend…”

“Sha,” the old man said, signaling for silence. “You don’t think I have eyes in my head?” He raised his hand toward his threadbare pate that had come honestly with old age. “Or can see what you’re trying to do? Give him some breathing room.”

“But…”

“Trust him and let me do my job.” The old man looked at the darkening sky. “It’s a nice evening. Go play your game. I’ll keep a watch on him.”

“But…”

“If he so much as crosses his eyes, I’ll come get you.” 

“Better make that anything except for…” House made a funny face with a distinctive strabismic squint.

The old man wheezed a chuckle. “If you say so.” Abruptly, he grabbed House’s hand and pumped it. “My name is Saul, by the way. And you?”

Of all the people he had met since he had died, he didn’t feel the need to manufacture an alias. ”It’s Greg.”

“Nice meeting you, Greg. Good yontiv.” Saul placed the warm, mushy Snickers into his hand, and then shuffled back into the synagogue.

***

The unfinished chocolate went into the trash, and after ten minutes _Monster 4x4_ had lost its appeal. House turned on the AM radio, and hunkered into the Galaxie’s leather upholstery, listening to oldies. He was in a mood.

The candy and game were convenient props designed to get under Wilson’s skin, have him open up, but were failures. This religious revival somehow didn’t feel one hundred percent legit. At most, given human nature and Wilson’s revelation back in Princeton about his belief in a soul, he’d give it twenty-five. 

He wasn’t looking to mock Wilson, at least, not at full throttle. If that’s what he needed to keep going, House was willing to accept it. He just wanted to understand which burning bush had lit a fire under Wilson’s zealous ass. If he knew, maybe he could use it for his own purposes—to motivate Wilson to stay with the program. Not that he was getting any flack since they had begun their mini road trips, but a plan B for when long rides were no longer possible was prudent.

He stared at the Galaxie’s array of chrome-framed, space age gauges as if they were monitoring Wilson’s vital signs. “Speak to me,” he mumbled under his breath. Temperature—steady, no sign of depression. Clock—the ticker was strong, but at risk. Tachometer—symptoms of internal damage, currently minor—occasional coughing and hoarseness. The dashboard wasn’t offering any epiphanies on Wilson’s state of mind.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, reliving the lengthy Yom Kippur negotiations from last week. Wilson eventually agreed to whittle his aspirations down to one of three services, and then dropped the subject entirely, grabbing his iPad and going to the pool.

Wilson's reaction was off. By the next morning House was sure the bluster was an act. Immediately after breakfast he pushed for an explanation.

“If you must know, it’s to appease my parents. Ever since I went off to college Mom moaned about me not attending temple on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. My father’s exact words were, ‘Do it for your mother so she can die happy.’ So, why not? If she’s happy, I’m happy. We can both die happy.”

Dying happy versus just plain dying—a slick reason hiding behind a glib reason. ”Whose bucket list are we working on, yours or your mother's?” House shot back. “I’m not buying your answer.”

“Then don’t, but don’t also read more into my decision than there is,” Wilson had answered, getting up from the table and escaping out the door before House could probe further.

The gushing voice of the sportscaster announcing the local high school match ups for next Friday’s football games shook House out of his reverie. He sat up straight and smiled. He was an idiot for not understanding sooner.

***

The synagogue’s doors burst open and a river of people poured into the courtyard. House rolled his eyes as men, women, and children stood about in small clusters, chatting, kissing, and hugging. Basically doing their best to block his view. When the crowds had thinned, Saul was standing off to the side grasping Wilson’s arm in the same possessive grip he had used earlier.

They were engaged in a lively conversation. Saul was waving and pointing at Wilson. Apparently, Wilson had forgotten to return the shawl and yarmulke. He handed them over with an apologetic smile, and received an affectionate, double-handed handshake for his trouble. House slumped against the driver’s door as Saul welded his hand onto Wilson’s upper arm again and shepherded him toward the reception line headed by the Rabbi. It was Wilson’s turn to wave and point. He motioned toward House and ambled to the car, shedding his jacket and tie as he went. Judging from the hunched posture the evening had tapped into Wilson’s meager reserve of energy.

Flinging the discarded wardrobe into the back seat, Wilson huffed a sigh as he shut the passenger door. House held his tongue and concentrated on not hitting any of the congregants while backing out. As he straightened the car he had a chance to see Wilson’s relaxed expression. It was that of the tranquil penitent. Fine tension lines had melted away from his face and the eyes were soft-focused.

The velvety night breeze brushed across House's face as the car gathered speed. “Are you fully atoned? At-one-ment with God?” 

“I’d feel better if we could come back tomorrow.”

“No need. I got your message.”

“Huh?” Wilson gave him a guileless, open-mouthed look. The expression would have been convincing if he hadn't seen it dozens of times before when Wilson attempted to cover up a lie.

“Yom Kippur couldn’t have come at a better time. You wanted to make a point about the date, September 25th. If we had stuck to your original plan, we’d be checking into an end unit in a seedy motel, discussing how to off you. But seriously, this level of cryptic maneuvering is awfully elaborate, even for you.” 

A flicker of a smile lit Wilson’s face and disappeared. “Sometimes it’s easier to have a conversation with God than it is with you, House.” 

“Not true. Neither of us listen.”

Wilson gave up on repressing his grin. “But only you can’t resist a puzzle.”

“So, this was your way of telling me you decided to stick around despite the misery of going through chemo. Meanwhile, you took full advantage of your birthright and hedged your bets by bargaining with Yahweh for another year. Admit it. Death isn’t much of an alternative.” House glanced at Wilson. His eyes were closed tight as if shutting him out, or falling asleep. 

Wilson stirred and stifled a yawn. “There are days when I feel like crap, but they’re offset with good ones. And you’re willing to do the dishes without whining. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m having fun.” 

“You look like you can hardly contain yourself.” House arched an eyebrow. “Wait until you see where we’re headed next, the ShoeZeum. It’s filled to the rafters with Nikes.” 

Wilson released a good-natured groan.

“And if you ate more, you’d notice the plates are made of paper,” House retorted irritably. He’d gone extra lengths to stealthily undertake a larger share of the chores without being busted. “The story about your parents. Was any part of it true?”

“Yes. Up until my third divorce.” Wilson shrugged his shoulders. “After that they stopped asking.” 

Pressing the accelerator, the car purred as it zoomed up the freeway ramp. Wilson might be a man of mystery but his parents were from a different planet. “I take it you won’t post your religious experience on your Facebook page?”

“Not necessary. After getting back with Sam I lied to my folks that I went,” Wilson said half-asleep, his calm voice completely devoid of any remorse.

House stifled the impulse to laugh.

.

.

* * *

**Kol Nidre**  
This video was removed from YouTube for a while. I'm pleased it's back. [Moishe Oysher's](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moishe_Oysher) version is very compelling.  
  
  
Location!Location!Location!: http://youtu.be/JB1qX8Eqm0I

The segment comes from a 1939 Yiddish film, _Overture to Glory_  
Summary thanks to [JJ Goldberg's Blog](http://blogs.forward.com/jj-goldberg/tags/moishe-oysher/): "It’s a variation on the _Jazz Singer_ theme with Oysher playing a young cantor who is lured from the synagogue to become an opera singer, learns his son has died, loses his voice, takes to the streets and finally stumbles back into shul for one last Kol Nidre before dying. Oysher joins in at 3:28.


	6. Chapter 6

_1992_

_Back in the hotel room you were clumsy, sloppy, and crazy hot; your hands in three places at once. You hung onto me, shouting my name. Within seconds I was tumbling after you._

_Drifting off to sleep, you murmured, “Sam.”_

_Awake until dawn, I hated her for what she had done to you, to us._

~.~

.

.

“Seriously? Scrubs?”

House removed the mask covering his mouth. “Don’t look so shocked.” Easing onto a stool, he poured red wine into two glasses—one to the brim. He pushed the other toward Wilson. Gulping half of his down, he refilled it and slapped on a fresh pair of surgical gloves. “We agreed we weren’t leaving anything to chance.”

The dark eyes lit up in a mix of understanding and vexation. “You stole those the last time we went to the cancer center. I should have known when you disappeared.” 

House reviewed the items on the tray next to his elbow. Wilson had arranged everything in precise, orderly fashion. “You actually swallowed my story about getting homesick for cafeteria food?” 

“House, what if you had been caught?”

“Do you hear helicopters circling overhead? Stop worrying. Swiping hospital property is my subspecialty. It’s when I give things back, like hockey tickets, that gets me in trouble.” He nudged the mask into place and soaked a cotton ball in antiseptic. “Can we get on with this? Which ear are we desecrating? My soap comes on in ten minutes.”

Wilson’s lips parted in confusion. “Which ear?”

“Huge decision, I know. Let’s keep things uncomplicated and go with both.”

“Whoa! Not so fast.” Wilson held up a hand mirror and checked his profile. “I thought you were well versed in cryptic cultural references. Does it even matter which side is pierced anymore?”

“You tell me. I don’t follow _LGBT Fashion Daily_.”

Wilson heaved a heavy sigh, took a sip from his glass, and reached for his iPad, poking at the screen.

“This is a chance to express yourself.” House warmed to his theme. ”Choose by political affiliation—right for Republican, left for bleeding heart liberal. Or how about the _New Yankee Workshop_ way? Lefty loosey? Although you look more like a righty tighty.” 

“Pierce the left,” Wilson said flatly, showing him the screen. 

“I shoulda known. _Mr. Clean_ , coming right up.” House sped through the procedure, applying topical anesthetic and a dot of iodine. Holding the piercing gun to the ear, he said, “Don’t move. You’re going to feel a pinch,” and winked broadly. “That’s medical jargon for bites like a big dog. See? I haven’t lost my bedside manner. It’s just like riding a bicycle.”

“Can it, House,” Wilson said wearily.

“Nervous?”

“No.”

“Then why is your upper lip covered in sweat?”

Wilson swiped at his skin. The hand came back dry. “Stop psyching me out and get it over with.”

“Last chance to back out. Green light or abort?”

“Jus—“

_Ka-chung._

“Ow! Ow! Owww!” Wilson cupped his hand over his reddening ear.

“Stop it, you big baby.” 

“Why did you ask me if you weren’t going to wait?”

“Even if I told you Mr. C vamped as a drag queen, you weren’t about to change your mind.” House swabbed disinfectant on the back of the lobe while Wilson admired the result in a mirror. Gaunt face or not, the stainless steel stud went well with his dimple. 

House pulled down his mask and drained the topped glass. About to pour more, he saw Wilson’s concerned stare and changed his mind. 

“Didn’t know the effort would affect you so much, but thanks, House.”

“Save it.” He peeled off the gloves. “Tell me instead why you risked your health to do it? You’re not squealing with girlish delight.”

"It looks good." The satisfied smile dimmed slightly. “The reason I wanted it wouldn't interest you.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I weren’t.”

Wilson shook his head. “That's not interest, that’s curiosity.” He began tidying the counter. “Which is fine. That’s how you are. But the ‘why’ doesn’t matter. Call it closure.”

Closure. Something from the past. One Wilson brother had a pinpoint scar on his ear. Wilson had brought up teenaged patients as a reason to push forward with his idiotic plan. “How long have you waited to write off the open balance?”

Wilson’s blushed a delicate, rosy hue. “Since I was seventeen. Please. I’m asking you politely.”

“Does this have anything to do with Danny?”

The flush intensified and spread to Wilson’s cheekbones. “Yes, but I don’t intend to play twenty questions. That's all I'm saying.” 

“Ungrateful bastard,” House muttered.

“We’re done, House.” Holding the reusable items in his arms, Wilson crossed to the bathroom. 

"Hope your OCD is happy!" House shouted at Wilson's retreating back.

House could live with the edict. Grabbing the remote, he sunk into the cushions in time to hear _Prescription Passion’s_ introductory theme song. He didn’t need to fill in the blanks to sort out Wilson’s residual adolescent angst. Danny had done the deed, and Wilson chickened out or went full scold. Somehow, nearly thirty years later, Wilson had turned it into another item on his guilt list. 

He bumped up the volume to disguise the sound of running water and banging cabinet doors. During the commercials he’d unleash his imagination and add his own details about wild partying without the parents around and a raid on the liquor cabinet.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

_1992_

_In the morning you jumped out of bed and snatched up your scattered clothes, hopping on one foot while you put on your pants. At the door you mumbled that last night was a drunken mistake. The cooling embers of passion in your eyes told me you were lying._

~.~

.

.

House adjusted the brim of his hat to cut the sun’s glare. The barren, fenced in patch of land was nothing to look at. “Hollywood does wild and wooly better.”

“Forget movies,” Wilson ducked and shot, then blew imaginary smoke from his index finger, “this is the OK Corral, and I just killed a McLaury.” 

“You murdered a dummy, dummy. Holster your digit, Doc Holliday.” House pushed off from the fence he was leaning against. “Let’s belly up to a bar and slake our thirst.”

“Later.” A thin brochure materialized from Wilson’s windbreaker. “There’s something I want to see before the sun goes down.”

“Must you?” 

“Must I what?” 

“Don’t give me that clueless look. This is Tombstone, as in cemetery.” The word grated in House’s throat. “How many have we visited? Five?” He dusted off a sun-baked bench with his Stetson and sat down. “Keep yourself company. I’ll wait here.”

“It’s Boothill.” Wilson spread his arms wide and forced a chuckle. “It’s famous.” 

“It's filled with the usual 19th century blights: consumption, childbirth, and diphtheria, with the added novelty of gunfights.” House faked a broad yawn.

Wilson shook his head, disbelievingly. “First of all, it’s filled with people, not coroner’s reports.” He held the pamphlet at arm’s length and cleared his throat. “Says here, ‘Deaths occurred from strychnine, chloroform, ptomaine, hanging, range wars, and explosions.’ It’s your kind of sandbox.” Wilson paused, wincing as he coughed into his fist, then looked at House expectantly. “It’s right across the highway. Last chance. Are you coming with or do I go alone?” 

_Across the highway_. The image of a big rig barreling toward Wilson while he was doubled over in a coughing spasm spurred House to make a decision—not that he could beat off a truck with his cane, preventing them from becoming roadkill. “You had me at strychnine.”

.

.

* * *

As House had anticipated, Wilson fell into his customary reverie. 

“Drawing comfort from the Circle of Life, are we?” 

Wilson waved his hand in a helpless gesture. “They died so young back then.”

“Yep, you have most beat by three years.” 

The cemetery’s stillness stifled conversation. Wilson meticulously crosschecked names with the brochure, pointing out the graves of those that died from unique causes. “Here’s a colorful obit: ‘He climbed the golden stairs on the fumes from a pan of charcoal.’”

At this latest trivia tidbit, House stopped dead in his tracks. “We passed three children’s graves and you didn’t pause or choke up once.” He planted his cane firmly in the dirt. “You’re going out of your way to entertain me. Why?”

“Since you decided to come I thought I’d make it worth your while. It’s called compromise.” Wilson motioned to continue. 

“Nope.” House stood his ground. “’James Wilson, carefully calibrating his level of protectiveness for your individual needs.’ One of your ex-wives shared that piece of wisdom with me. What are you up to?” 

Wilson’s hand went to the back of his neck. “Bonnie. Her calibration speech was the warning shot before she asked for a divorce.” 

“Your charm isn’t working on me either.” House leaned his weight onto his cane and waited. 

The standoff seemed interminable until Wilson scuffed at the packed earth with his shoe. Finally, there was a huffed sigh. “Realizing when I die you’re likely to dump my body down a mineshaft or in the middle of the desert, I went ahead and made funeral arrangements. When the time comes…” Wilson moistened his lips. “If you need to get out of Dodge quickly or you can’t be disturbed while you’re busy reaching the next level on your Nintendo, Mercedes agreed to handle the details.”

“Auntie Mame of the desert was willing to talk about your pending death?” Dragging their landlady into their personal affairs, no matter how much it would alleviate a distasteful task, added to House's unease. The muscles in his chest constricted. It was impossible for him to inhale deeply. 

He could accept Wilson poring over every detail like a high school student lavishing attention on a science fair project, but their “never say die” spunky landlady refused to listen when Wilson turned fatalistic. “Is there something you told her and didn’t tell me about your last meeting with Bishop?”

“I knew you would take it the wrong way. It’s simply smart to plan ahead, and it’s cheaper, and…” Wilson’s voice faded away in a jumble of muttered words.

“What’s that?”

“I respect your aversion for ritual. With Mercedes handling everything you don’t have to attend, which is probably best. You can remain low profile and not call attention to yourself.”

But the mumbo jumbo meant something to Wilson. House snapped off a low hanging twig from an olive branch and twirled it in his fingers. “A graveyard is a helluva of a place to have this conversation.”

“I thought it made a better segue than in an ice cream parlor.” Wilson drew his hand over his forehead. “How about I tell you the rest at that bar?”

***

“Colorado Springs?” His back to the wall, House stretched his legs along the length of the tall-backed wooden booth. “The cemetery you insisted on visiting before we came to Arizona?”

Gazing off to the side, Wilson tapped nervously on his beer bottle, the tips of his fingers leaving a pattern of irregular circles in the condensation. “My parents suggested the place. Distant relatives have a family plot.”

So Wilson had thought of everything. Even offering a graceful way for him to beg off because of the distance. House let his attention stray to the tourists dressed in their Grand Canyon t-shirts and regulars congregating on the far side of the room watching football. 

“You have no objection? No exhortations about cremation and scattering me to the four winds?” 

“James Wilson, the good son. Your parents played a part in your decision. Admit it.” 

Wilson slumped against the booth, defeated. “At least you won’t have to get involved and I’ll be dead.”

“When the time comes…” House took his time and drank down a good portion of beer. “I’ll be there.” 

A corner of Wilson’s mouth twitched upward and he nodded. 

House shifted to a sitting position when he spied their waitress bearing down on them, balancing three plates on her arms. Right before she got to their table, a cowboy yanked her skirt, demanding a pitcher of beer for him and his friend. She scowled and kept walking. 

“Get that much, Trudy?” Wilson asked as a massive roast turkey sub held together with frilly toothpicks the size of pickaxes landed in front of him. 

“Brock and Glen are good kids when they’re sober.” She brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear with her free arm and gave House a pulled pork sandwich—the equivalent mass and weight of the turkey. No room left on his plate, his side of fries came in a red plastic basket. She pointed at their bottles. “More of the same?” 

“I’m good,” Wilson answered, lifting the top of the roll and inspecting the filling.

“Honey,” she gave him a ‘poor little lamb’ smile. “I told the chef no produce. And just for you, there’s a 10% discount. Ignore where it says senior citizen on the check.”

“And I asked for no pickles.” House made a show of flicking the slices onto the table. 

Her benign expression disappeared. “I told the chef,” she answered coolly and eyed his beer. “How about you? You want another?” 

His second, he tilted the bottle. It was more than half full. She must have seen for herself because she spun on her heel and called out that she’d come by again later.

“Nice ass,” House said, watching appreciatively as she wiggled past seated patrons to get to the bar. When she was lost among the crowd, he swiveled back to Wilson, who was tugging on his hat and looking glum. 

“I wish—“

“Oh, come on, you’re an oncologist, you know how people react. They see through you or can’t do enough. Forget feeling sorry for yourself and work that pinched, Mexican hairless face for all it’s worth.” 

House accepted Wilson’s expelled breath and philosophical nod as a sign the whineage had been cut short, and trained his full attention onto his sandwich, contemplating the best way to devour it. He decided the Guy Fieri double-handed, unhinged jaw, stuff-it-in-your-mouth method had the best possibility of success. 

The jumble of smoky chunks and caramelized crusts of pork on a chewy, homemade bun were nirvana. “ _Um_ believable,” he managed to say around the mouthful of food.

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut in mock horror. “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you delayed your food review until after you finished eating.” He then tore off a sizeable chunk of his club. “Thish ish goood.” 

After making decent headway, Wilson filched a fry from House’s order and made a face. “Is it me or do these taste bad?”

House pushed a handful into his mouth. “They’re God-awful.” He slid over the shaker and applied a hailstorm of salt. The improvement was infinitesimal. 

“Better?”

“If you prefer your stale oil heavily laced with sodium.”

Wilson grabbed another and grimaced. “Horrible but surprisingly addictive.”

House picked up a small bunch and regarded them with unearned gravitas before popping them in his mouth. “As unhealthy as they are unsavory.” 

“Deadly. You should lay off them.” Wilson reached for another. 

Snatching the basket away, House had a flash of déjà vu, which was followed by an epiphany. “Your appetite is back.” 

“Why uh…” Wilson looked guilty.

“What are you taking?”

“Dexamethasone. At the last consult Bishop became apoplectic when he saw how much weight I lost.” Wilson shrugged, astonished. “Can you imagine him getting upset?”

“I can’t imagine you taking his advice.”

“He threatened to transfer me to Garza.”

“Go-getter Garza? The only oncologist on the staff that’s read a medical journal in the last decade?” House hitched his bottle in the air. “To Dr. Putz for growing a pair. May he never trip over them.” 

Wilson winced and clinked back. 

“When were you going to tell me? Keeping secrets about our meds is a direct violation of our deal.”

“As soon as it kicked in.” Wilson had the good sense to look chagrined. “It sneaked up on me.”

“As is this beer. I must be getting old.” House pushed his bottle away and let loose a full-bodied belch. “Let’s get out of here before I’m too drunk to drive and we’re stuck overnight.”

While Wilson dropped bills on the table, House clambered out of the tight-fitting booth, stumbling. His good leg had gone numb from sitting on the hard seats. Righting himself he accidentally jabbed an elbow into the side of the head of a cowboy—the one with the arrogant friend. A plume of beer splashed onto a section of bright red plaid, muting it to burgundy.

“Uh-oh, my bad.” House said by way of an apology. He was about to push off with his cane when calloused hands clutched a hunk of his t-shirt.

“Hey you!” The Paul Bunyan skirt grabber loomed over him, scowling. “Where do you think you’re going? You messed Glen’s shirt.”

“Spills happen, and technically, Glen messed his own shirt.” House tried to pull away unsuccessfully. “Get your grimy hands off me.”

While resisting, the guy suddenly let go. House fell backward, bumping into the booth. Fire traveled along his hip and ignited the nerves in his thigh. Crumpling in pain, two arms wrapped around his waist and caught him before he hit the floor. 

“Hou-Ed, are you alright?” 

“Yeah.” Clutching his cane and feeling acutely miserable, he brushed Wilson's hands away. “I tripped.”

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Glen swatted his friend on the back. “Forget it, Brock. The old guy’s shitfaced. Can hardly stand.”

“You’re mistaking my friend’s disability for drunkenness, but he wants to apologize.” Wilson’s fingers dug into House’s flesh. “Don’t you, Ed?” 

Putting words in his mouth while he was still hurting was unwelcome. House spun around to give Wilson what for, but stopped when he saw the dark eyes darting toward the guy’s shoes, pleading with him not to make a scene. 

The men wore ankle holsters, which were perfectly legal. “Carrying concealed” wasn’t breaking the law in Arizona.

“Look, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.” House pulled out his wallet. “How much did that Kmart special set you back?” Wilson emitted a high-pitched squeak next to his ear. 

“Damn, you’re funny, mister. And no question, you got better taste in clothes than my pal, Glen.” Brock touched House again, this time tracing one of the pistols on his blue tee shirt. “How about a trade? Yours for the shirt you ruined?”

House fingered the shirt protectively. The cloth was soft with age and was one of the few items he had brought with him from Princeton.

Wilson huffed. “The shirt isn’t negotiable.” He thumbed through his billfold. “Give me a number.”

“I told you. A shirt for a shirt, or...” Brock moved in a ghostly blur. Suddenly, the long barrel of a gun pointed at their chests.

“That’s not a viable option,” Wilson answered in his soothing bedside manner voice, as if he were going over treatment plans with a patient.

Brock smirked, elbowing Glen. “Get a load of Old Cripple’s, pal. How ya’ gonna stop me from getting what I want, Scarecrow?” 

“With this.” 

An ominous cylindrical object nearly burst the corner seam of Wilson’s pocket. Face shuttered and voice forged from tempered steel, he said, ”Stalemate.” 

“Christ, Wilson, don’t be an idiot,” House muttered under his breath. 

“That’s no gun,” Brock jeered, his eyes narrowed into nasty slits. “Even if it was, you haven’t got the guts to pull the trigger.” Glen didn’t look as confident.

With his right hand, Wilson passed his wallet to House. “What’s your name again?”

“Brock.”

It’s not about guts, Brock. It’s about what you have to lose.” Wilson pushed back his hat with his thumb, displaying the results of his chemo. “Are you sure you want to find out which one us that is?”

The whole room had gone quiet. 

Brock’s hand twitched, and a lone bead of sweat trailed down his cheek. The Adam’s apple in his neck did a little jig.

“No s-sir.” Brock said, his voice cracking. He placed his weapon on the table and raised his hands in the air. 

“Sensible decision.” Wilson’s hand stayed in his pocket. “Ed, how much cash do we have?”

House flipped through their wallets. “Between us, two hundred.”

“Give it to them.”

“One hundred will pay for a closet full of shirts.”

“All of it.”

As House dumped the money on the table, Wilson touched the brim of his hat in farewell, then gave House a light shove toward the door.

.

.

* * *

“You called his bluff by upping the ante with a cancer chip, but promise me you won’t do anything crazy like that again, that you’re retiring the fastest finger in the West.” Driving the car with one hand, House placed his free one over his heart. “Old Cripple is on his 9th life.” 

“Get off it, House. I don’t know how you did it, but I do know you’re enough of a genius to arrange that little drama. I almost pissed in my pants until I caught on.”

House sat quietly drumming his fingers against the steering wheel for a few seconds. “Caught on to what?” 

“My bucket list, of course. Playing Clint Eastwood.”

House spared a sour sidelong glance, then turned his attention back to the dark and lonely highway.

Stop acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Desperation crept into Wilson’s voice. “You know, Dirty Harry?”

“Tombstone got to you. Think about this: If you were sitting in a bar in any other city and two drunks became belligerent, and one pulled out a gun. What would you do?”

The silence grew until House wondered if he had spoken out loud. He was about to repeat the question when there was a sharp intake of breath.

“I-I-I… Wilson buried his face in his hands. “Oh, crap.”

House relaxed into the molded bucket seat and gave the Shelby more gas. On a ten-point scale, he’d rate the showdown a nine. If it weren’t for the unforeseen jolt to his leg and Wilson throwing an extra hundred at the Corlane brothers, it would have been a ten.

.

.

* * *

[Boothill Graves in Tombstone](http://www.boothillgraves.com/)  
[Guy Fieri on _Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1hzFGOkBnk)  
[House's tee shirt](http://3kelvin.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1992/343254) found on 's journal. Full collection [here](http://3kelvin.livejournal.com/5306.html).

.

.


	8. Chapter 8

_1992_

_Before we were cast out of Eden, on the last day of the conference we bumped into each other, literally, at the buffet. Taken off guard, I stole a carrot stick from your plate and made like Bugs Bunny, “What’s up, Doc?”_

_Tightly wound, you didn’t crack a smile…_

~.~

.

****  
****  
_Winter_

Without waiting for an invitation, Mercedes bustled past House and placed an about-to-burst grocery bag on the kitchen counter. The brown paper rustled each time she pulled a sealed baggie or a sunny Tupperware container from its inner depths. “Have you eaten dinner? I brought you Christmas goodies.”

“No.” House limped around the peninsula using the counter for support. “Christmas? When do you celebrate? We just finished your mac and cheese from Thanksgiving.”

“This is my first batch of holiday tamales. Tell me which ones you niños like, and I’ll make more.” She opened one of the plastic bags and spun around searching for a dish. Her hand went to her hip when she saw the sink piled high with food-encrusted pots. 

“Wilson caught a cold.” House reached into a cabinet and brought out his stash of paper plates. “I fell behind on housework.”

Mercedes’ features immediately softened. “How is he?” She pulled a brown stocking cap out of her pocket. “I knitted an extra one in my spare time.”

On cue, Wilson’s head bobbed above the couch pillows, fists rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His clothes were rumpled and his knitted navy cap askew. The tip of his nose was red. “Hi Mercedes. Didn’t hear you come in.” 

“Pobrecito.” She rushed over and held her hand to his forehead, her wrinkled lips pruned in concern. Wilson accepted the attention with a dopey smile. “Your skin is cool,” she announced, as if she had personally performed a miracle. 

“It wasn’t that bad, and Ed made an excellent nurse.” When her back was turned, Wilson smirked at him.

“Good thing I came when I did. I’ll fix you a plate while they’re still warm.” She became fully occupied unwrapping cornhusks and spooning sauces.

Each package released the sweet scent of masa, savory meat, and vegetables, causing House to salivate. “What about pobrecito’s caregiver?”

“Wait your turn. I’m getting to yours.” She winked at him. “Have something special for you.” She prepared a duplicate plate except for a homely tamale that showed no hint of filling. “It’s sweet. Packed with butter and sugar.”

Wilson shambled over and sat at the counter timidly dipping forkfuls of masa and filling into the variety of sauces: rojo, verde, and dark brown mole. He nodded with pleasure after each bite.

Always in perpetual motion, Mercedes went to the sink and tackled the dirty pots. When she was done, she wiped down the counter and packed up the containers, preparing to leave. 

House scraped up the last of the crumbs and sauce with his fork and smacked his lips. “Tamales are a top ten comfort food.” 

“Mine rank number one,” she said triumphantly and turned to Wilson. “Have a favorite?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, the chicken, and the peppers with cheese.” 

House jumped in. “Make mine old-fashioned pork and don’t spare the lard. Cholesterol is a top ten killer.”

Mercedes positively glowed, ignoring the dig. “Double batches coming right up.” She then tilted her head and regarded Wilson carefully. “There’s something different about you. Have you put on weight?”

Wilson cleared his throat and covered his stomach protectively, which was still an inverted dish. “My doctor prescribed a corticosteroid.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Who are you seeing?”

“Bishop.”

She planted her hands on her hips and her mouth tightened with unmistakable skepticism. “Not Carl Bishop.”

Seeing three moves ahead, House knew the conversation was on the express track to Disasterville. He opened the door. “Thanks for dropping by.”

Unfazed, Wilson grinned at Mercedes. “You know him?”

House stuck his head out and took a deep sniff. “Something is burning. You must have left the stove on.”

“Nonsense,” she snapped. “I shut everything off before I left.” She turned her attention to Wilson. “The bumbling old coot was Manny’s doctor. He never offered any relief for symptoms unless we did our own research and asked for medications by name. Friends told us the same thing. We finally demanded another oncologist. Only then did Manny improve. Later we consulted with an attorney about filing a malpractice suit. Unfortunately, mediocrity isn’t a crime.”

“Is that so?” Wilson’s tone was calm and pleasant, but his smile was as thin as veneer. Resting his hand on the small of Mercedes’ back, he shot death rays at House while escorting her to the door. “Maybe in my case, Bishop felt _pressured_ to do right by a colleague. What do you think, Ed?” 

House met the stare head on. “For whatever reason, he did what he thought was right.”

“James,” Mercedes clucked, “mark my words, you need to do something about that doctor.” 

“Yes. Yes, I will.” Wilson murmured, his voice as placid as a still lake. He closed the door behind her with a soft click. 

House closed his eyes and counted slowly under his breath. He made it to three before Wilson detonated.

“House, how could you!?”

“Bishop is a moron. As your _real_ doctor I’m obligated to do what’s best for you.” 

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. “Which means you believe I’m no better than him.”

“No. As the patient, you weren’t thinking clearly. You were in denial over your weight loss. Do you know how much worse your cold would have been if your body didn’t have the energy to fight it off?” 

Wilson blinked a few times and spread his arms in entreaty. “Why go behind my back?” 

House didn’t have a good explanation other than the truth. “You made it abundantly clear in the past that you were dead set against my interference because of my self-interest.”

Wilson averted his gaze. “Okay, I haven’t made it easy on you. But don’t you think I can see the whiteboard behind your eyes recording every cough? Detailing how my body is slowly failing?” He ran his hand over his face in a helpless gesture. “It’s late. I can’t do this now. I’m going to bed. We can adjust the ground rules in the morning.” 

House nodded. When Wilson disappeared under the bed covers, he limped to the kitchen cabinet where the liquor was stored and poured two fingers of bourbon into a glass. He tossed it down his throat in one quick gulp.

***

At the blush of dawn House was already on his second cup of coffee and watching the traffic report when Wilson shuffled over to the couch, yawning.

“You’re up early.” He pointed to House’s backpack leaning against a cushion. “Are we going somewhere?” 

“You're not. I am.” 

Wilson retreated to a barstool. “House, if this is about last night, I’ve had a chance to think. I was out of line. Mercedes took me by surprise.”

House clicked the power off but stared straight ahead at the black screen. “You’re not the only one who has to think. I need time alone.”

Up again, Wilson drifted toward him, hands close to his chest and tightly clasped. “If it’s a matter of space, I’ll move to one of the guest rooms in the big house.”

“You’ve become quite cozy with your landlady.” House stood up and slung the bag over his shoulder. “Are you two having a May-post-apocalyptic romance?”

“Come on, House.” Wilson mouth morphed into a lopsided grin. He raised his arm as if to touch him and then dropped it to his side. “Where are you going?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“Which car are you taking? Trying out the DeLorean?”

House briefly considered lying because Wilson would worry. “The Camry.” 

A series of emotions flickered over Wilson’s face: recognition, panic, and resignation. They resonated through House too.

“How long will you be gone?”

House made his way to the door. “I don’t know, but I’ll be back.”

“By Christmas?”

“Does it matter?” 

“I thought this year...” Wilson shrugged. “It could be our last together. Not that we have to do the tree and the lights and the Christmas carols. Celebrating with pizza would be enough.” 

“You haven’t been able to hold down a slice since we got here.” 

“Then I’ll eat tamales.” 

“Wilson… “ House kept his head down and twisted the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I can’t promise when I’ll be back.”

“House?” 

Wilson sounded like he was tearing up. House forced himself not to look. “What?”

“Don’t do anything that will get you on the nightly news.”

* * *

.

The underappreciated and long-ignored Camry shot out of town like a bullet. House did have a plan, which would better be defined as a track record. He was running away, and it felt good. It always did for the first day, or week, or month. When he said to Wilson he’d be back, his heart wasn’t in it, but he trusted in the boomerang effect from the past. He always returned, eventually. And this was Wilson, the one person he was willing to give up everything for.

As the sun rose higher in the sky and the sleepiest of pueblos stirred, he exited the highway, stopping at a bank where they had established a joint account. Pausing at the ATM, he thought better of it and went inside, signing for $5000 in his doctor’s scrawl using his official alias, Jordan Jarrett. It was enough money to keep him afloat without giving away his every move to Wilson, who was sure to monitor his credit cards and bank statements. 

Back on the highway he was forced to make a decision whether to go east or west. Hands-down, there was a destination custom fit for his mood. He headed west.

Like an excommunicated, cloistered monk House found his personal heaven in Las Vegas. Not that gambling and long-legged hookers had lost their thrill, but what he craved most was the lollipop colors of a neon sign landscape, music loud enough to vibrate the floor under his feet, bumping shoulders in germ laden crowds, someone else making his bed and washing his towels. For two days he didn’t leave his room, popping pills like they were M&M’s, and washing them down with scotch. A bounty of raw everything, from apples to oysters, was delivered to his room. For dessert and onto breakfast and back to dessert, he followed the prodigious adventures of Penny Blaze and Bernard Blade on the porn channel. When the urge moved him, he moaned and wriggled freely under the covers in a threesome fantasy.

But there was only so much he could do by himself. And that was where the taxis came in. A transaction could be handled online or by flipping through the yellow pages, but he wanted to do it old school. House hailed a cab and directed the driver to Fremont Street, dropping well-crafted hints about escort services. On the way back to the Strip, he did the same with a different cabbie. After a few evenings he had two collections of cards sitting on top of the Bible in the nightstand drawer. 

He combed through one pile and chose two agencies. The women were comely, agreeable, and came prepared. They easily turned five stars on Yelp. 

The second and smaller group was harder. He was out of practice, and somehow, felt disloyal. Unable to pick up the phone or throw the cards away, he shoved them back in the drawer. 

After nearly a week of mindless hedonism, he was left with a question. Had he deserved the time alone? Absolutely. He had cared and cautioned and tiptoed around Wilson for months. 

And what did it get him? Out of nowhere, Wilson had caught a cold. House carried around a thermometer that was practically glued to his fingers while Wilson hacked up his lungs one Kleenex at a time. It was the straw to end all straws. And this was only a small taste of the future. It was going to get worse, and soon. The cold had pushed back the chemo schedule. The tumor had a full month to spread.

Which led to a second question. It was Christmas Eve. Was he ready to return?

.

.

.


	9. Chapter 9

_1992_

_I followed you from lecture to lecture. While you scribbled earnestly in your notebook, I popped my gum next to your ear. By the end of the day you loosened up enough to say you wanted to be friends if I agreed what happened, never happened._

~.~

.

.

“Really?”

Nothing said “all is well” like smoke rising from the chimney and a strand of silver lights outlining the kitchen window. House’s anxiety was laid to rest as he walked up the drive to those signs of domestic holiday bliss. 

But after the glam of Las Vegas, the potted, bulbous cactus sitting on the counter with a Santa hat was… “Really? I’m welcomed home by a big prick?”

“Mercedes called it Christmas Snoopy. If you squint you can make out the nose.” Wilson had padded up to him, and spoke close to his ear. “Of course, now that you mention it, you two do bear a marked resemblance.” 

Wilson’s smile incandesced a mere 60 watts but was genuine. “Merry Christmas, House.”

House assembled his mental whiteboard for a nanosecond before dismantling and banishing it. On the drive back he had come to terms with the fact that his newly developed caregiver skills were chronic, or at minimum, recurring. “Speaking of noses, you lost your most favored reindeer status. Your red nose is gone.”

Wilson self-consciously rubbed the tip. “A shame, really. It would have added to the holiday atmosphere. But look on the bright side, my lingering cough substitutes for sleigh bells.” 

“You’re in a holly jolly mood. Did girlfriend pamper you while I was away?” He pointed his cane at Snoopy. “Bet Mercedes can’t wait to stick that thing up my ass.”

“If by pampering you mean knitting.” Wilson rolled his eyes, and pulled the hem of a red stocking cap over his ears. “I have a drawerful, and she refuses to stop until each has a pair of matching socks.” Wilson lifted a pants leg and showed off a red clad foot. 

“As far as you are concerned, I told her you had to leave on personal business. A family emergency.” 

The muscles in the back of House’s neck unknotted. Wilson was looking out for him. “So, we’re good?”

“Yeah.” Wilson took the shopping bag House had carried in. “You said you needed to be alone.” He shrugged his shoulders, but there was an edge to his voice. “It’s not like you walked away without saying a word, or tried to run me over with your car.”

House worked his jaw in memory of Wilson’s right jab. “Does this mean I’m forfeiting my nuts?” He closed his eyes. “Get it over with. Bring me an ice pack, when you’re done.” 

Wilson chuckled. “Just wanted to see you sweat.” 

House opened one eye. Wilson was searching through the bag. 

“You found a restaurant open on Christmas Day?” 

“The hotel near the highway has a dining room.” House joined him at the counter. He pulled out a small, flat box, opened it up, and swirled it under Wilson’s nose. “I’m calling your bluff with personal sized pizzas.”

“ _Aghhhmm_. Yeah. Got anything healthier?” 

“You don’t mean healthier, you mean less pizz-ier.” House bit off the drooping tip from the rejected slice, and ogled the contents within the bag. “The kitchen covered the major food groups: Italian, Chinese, and Thai.” He hooked a finger around a wire handle. “How about shrimp dumplings?” 

Wilson’s face split into a delighted grin. “Gimme.” 

“There’s also chow fun and mu shu pork.” House handed over a packet of chopsticks and soy sauce. On the way to the couch, he snatched two beers from the fridge. 

John Wayne swaggered across the widescreen, his spurs jangling. “Alright.” He settled into the cushions. “A John Wayne Christmas. No cowboy swishes better than the Duke, except Montgomery Clift. Raise the volume.”

Wilson blithely ignored him and muted the sound. “So, you went to Vegas?”

“What gave me away?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A five thousand dollar withdrawal seemed excessive for visiting El Paso or Salt Lake City, and you don’t have a passport, which ruled out Tahiti. Or it could be that Elvis Viva Las Vegas shirt you’re wearing. Is any of my money left?”

“Since you’re being grubby about it, let’s see.” House casually handed Wilson a slip of paper, watching carefully for a reaction. 

“A cashier’s check for six grand?” Wilson’s voice raised an octave.

“And change.” House tossed a small, black-flocked box across the couch. “Don’t get any ideas that I got soft,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed when you gave me that Gibson you’ve been hiding under your bed.” 

Wilson’s eyes went wide and his mouth formed an ‘O.’ “If you wanted a guitar, why didn’t you buy one? It was for Mercedes' great-granddaughter. She asked me to hide it until Christmas Eve.” He flexed his wrist, about to toss the box back.

House raised his hand. He didn’t give a crap about the guitar or gifts, but it had made a fine excuse to walk into a jewelry store. “Keep it. I’m not returning to Las Vegas.”

When Wilson lifted the lid, his mouth puckered into a lower case ‘o’ and his hand flew to his ear. A modest diamond sparkled in its velvet nest. 

“I’m sick of that stainless steel ball.”

A corner of Wilson’s mouth lifted; pleased but not ecstatic. It wasn’t exactly the reaction House had hoped for, but was pure Wilson. “Too simple? Damn, I shouldn’t have let the saleswoman talk me out of the blingy skull and crossbones.” 

“Thank God one of you had good taste.” Plucking the old earring from his ear, Wilson headed for the bathroom with the little box. When he returned the stone flashed as he crossed to the kitchen and brought back another container of Chinese. “I realized the hoop was a mistake and couldn't decide what to get. Thanks, House.” 

"Forget it. I couldn't have my BFF strutting around in a hoop. It's so 80s." 

After taking some noodles from the box, Wilson passed the rest to him. “I did arrange a gift for you, but it’s not for Christmas. There's a package on the counter.”

Frenzied streaks of shadow and light from the widescreen arrested House’s attention. “I’ll open it later. Turn up the volume so we can hear the stampede.” Hundreds of gonzo steers trampled a chuck wagon into splinters and dust. 

_Stagecoach_ was next—black  & white with a slim and athletic John Wayne. Other than an abbreviated conversation about going to Monument Valley, they burrowed into the cushions and watched the movie.

***

_Silent night… not a creature was stirring…_

 

Startled, House blinked open his eyes. Dreaming he was in his old conference room, there was a sudden explosion from Wilson’s office. 

The sound hadn’t come from the television. The room was dark except for the orange ash glowing in the kiva. A fuzzy blanket covered him. The soft contours of the overstuffed couch were faintly outlined in gray by the crescent moon shining through the skylight. The take-out boxes that had littered the coffee table had vanished.

A series of smothered, raspy coughs shattered the peaceful night. Picking his way around the furniture, his socks were paltry insulation from the ice-cold floor tiles. Wilson was sitting up in bed and holding his chest, choking for air. 

House fumbled around for the oxygen mask and placed it firmly over Wilson’s mouth. “Easy. Inhale.”

When Wilson’s breathing was steady he waved it away. “This damn cold.”

“Have you had a scan while I was away?” House asked, worried. Wilson still had a hand pressed to his chest. He pulled his Vicodin container from his pocket and offered a tablet, hoping Wilson would refuse, but he dry-swallowed it without complaint. “You need to get the tumor checked.”

Wilson slumped against House’s shoulder. “My next appointment is right after New Year’s. I’ll get it done then.”

In the chill air, Wilson’s body heat and the subtle scent of soap clinging to his skin was like a tractor beam. House was reluctant to move.

“House?”

“I’m keeping you awake.” He eased off the bed. “Go back to sleep.” 

“Remember that night in New Orleans?” Wilson spoke just above a whisper. 

House answered in a noncommittal grunt. Was Wilson bringing up Their Night? The one Wilson had decreed off-limits?

“We almost got it right back then.” 

He was. House held his tongue. In a few minutes Wilson would come to his senses, say he was tired, and retreat into his comfortable shell of denial. 

There was a smothered hiccup. “It was my fault for backing off. I was an idiot for not realizing it was the best night of my life. I told myself, _convinced_ myself I slept with you to spite Sam.”

House sank into the mattress, numbed by the revelation. “Don’t hog all the blame. I didn’t want to be the rebound guy.”

A warm hand clasped his shoulder. “Then stay with me tonight.” 

Expecting the invitation to be withdrawn any second and revert to “just friends status,” House waited with his hand on the top button of his pants. “Are you sure?”

“I-I… Just get in.” The bed quaked and creaked as Wilson made room for him.

House hesitated. After years of spouting not-so-discreet innuendos at Wilson’s expense, did he still want Wilson “in that way”? If the sweet ache uncoiling from his groin meant anything, then hell yes. 

He undressed and slid under the warm covers. Shifting onto his side, he enmeshed his bare leg with Wilson’s and placed a possessive hand on the bony hip, pressing close until they fitted together.

Wilson’s hand covered his. “The medications, I can’t…”

"No need to explain. I knew it from the length of your showers. They're half as long as mine. It’s a pity you’re less durable than doable,” House said, unintentionally releasing a sigh. His hand roamed freely over the fleshy topography, hoping to get a rise, a lusty moan, any sign of passion. Other than gasped huff, Wilson lay inert under his touch. 

Unexpectedly, Wilson's hand crept lazily down his belly. House halted its progress and clasped it gently. “It’s late and we're half-asleep. Wait until tomorrow." 

Decades had passed since their relationship went beyond words, beyond casual touch. But he was willing to take whatever he could get for as long Wilson was willing. “Remember _When Harry Met Sally_?” 

“Don’t tell me,” Wilson answered wearily. “I’m Sally?” 

He brushed his lips against Wilson’s forehead. “We’re the old, married couple on the couch.”

* * *

.

Come morning, House was loath to leave the toasty bed and the snoring lump spooned next to him, but his stomach refused to stop growling. 

Dousing a bowl of cornflakes with milk, he noticed a glossy white priority mail package underneath the cactus. The non-Christmas gift Wilson mentioned last night. 

Ripping the seal, he poured the contents onto the counter. Paper. Legal documents snugly bound in light blue covers. A business envelope imprinted with a letterhead slid to the far side of the breakfast bar. He rescued it before it flew off the edge. The milk soured in his stomach when he recognized Stacy’s bold signature. It was a list of instructions. Clipped to the top was a New Jersey driver’s license for “Gregory House,” a duplicate of the one he had carried for years. 

“It’s not what it looks like, House.”

House picked up a folder. “’Petition to Reverse Declaration of Death’ with my name printed on it. It’s my one-way ticket back to prison. And here I was feeling bad because I went behind your back about the corticosteroids. Small potatoes compared to you.” 

“Hear me out.” Wilson buzzed around the kitchen, fluttering his hands, unable to meet his gaze. “I contacted Stacy about my will, but she was still upset about your death. I tried to comfort her.”

“Super Mouth couldn’t stand by and do nothing while my ex shed tears. You had to tell her.”

“No. She asked the kind of questions anyone would who wasn’t in the loop for several years. Why was your body found in a burnt, abandoned building? Why were you sent to prison? I’d answer one, she had two more.”

House felt a flush of shame. He wanted to bury the Cuddy debacle for once and for all. It was a contagion that wouldn’t stop mutating and spreading. Moving behind the breakfast bar he slapped his hands on both counters, preventing Wilson from fleeing. “You couldn’t lie or evade or just ignore her phone calls and emails?”

“I thought she deserved answers as long as I left out you were alive. When I explained the plumbing accident she acted shocked that Foremen’s attorney caved and didn’t fight the charge.”

“I broke parole. It’s an open and shut case.” House shook his head. 

“That’s what I told her, but having worked at PPTH she didn’t think it was that simple. Since you forfeited your life because of that incident, I wanted to learn more. I posed a hypothetical situation where you were alive. That’s when she became suspicious.” 

“And that’s when you told her.”

Wilson’s mouth flattened into a thin line of self-disgust. “She ferreted it out of me, one tiny question at a time.” Wilson rubbed his neck. “Stacy is good at what she does, House. Before I knew, she had the whole story, except,” there was a gleam in Wilson’s eyes, “everything we talked about was during my estate planning sessions, my _billed_ sessions. What I said about you was covered by attorney-client privilege. Your secret is safe. What you have to consider is how she can get you off.”

“Stacy could always get me off.” House rested his hip against the kitchen peninsula. “Is it your opinion or hers that she can overturn the parole violation?”

“Hers.” Wilson’s features became animated. “She assured me it was foolproof. Well, 90%. The first step is to bring you back to life. Then depending upon the judge who drew your case, she could make the violation disappear.” He shuffled through the papers and pulled out the instructions, flipping to the second page. Extracting an air ticket, he paled a little. “Fuck.”

“More good news?” 

“I should have opened the box when it arrived. Stacy wants to wrap this up by New Year’s Eve. Christmas week is quiet and most of the hanging judges went on vacation. The chances of drawing a sympathetic judge are in your favor. 

"You have an appointment today with a dentist in Phoenix for X-rays, and then it's on to an attorney who will fingerprint you and take my affidavit confirming who you are.” He waved the ticket. ”You’re booked on a three o’clock flight leaving today.” Wilson checked the paper again and the voucher. “She’s adamant about you traveling under your real name. TSA will spot a fake ID faster than a dead parolee.”

As a dedicated risk taker, the adrenalin was already pumping through House’s bloodstream, but if the foolproof plan fell in the 10%—the same way the thymoma had fallen into the smaller percentile, he’d be in prison before the week was up and never see Wilson again. “I can’t do it.”

“Of course you can. I’ll tell you everything she explained to me during the drive.”

“I mean, I promised to stay with you.”

“Yes, for five months.” Wilson folded his arms. “It’s going on eight. Three more than I deserve.”

House stared at the floor. “Don’t talk that way. That’s what people say when they’ve given up.” 

“It’s acceptance, House. And I appreciate everything you’ve done, but you just returned from an unplanned vacation. You’re not meant to be a babysitter. You need to get your old life back.”

“It wasn’t you or the cancer. It was the caregiving that snuck up on me.” House moved toward Wilson, who took a step back. “It won’t happen again, at least not like a dawn raid on Fort Apache. If it does, I’ll hire a caregiver and won’t drop off the grid.”

Wilson shook his head, his fingers restlessly curling into fists. “In the mad rush to get the hell out of New Jersey we got caught up in an _Easy Rider_ fantasy. I’m a dead end, but you’re getting a second chance. Grab it. Have faith in Stacy.” 

Stacy of the little golden cross. He couldn’t blame Wilson for succumbing to her legal expertise. He always felt safe racking up lawsuits at the hospital when she was there. If he had needed help out of a jam when they were together, he would have turned to her and trusted her implicitly. He nodded slowly.

“Good. Clearing your name is the right thing to do.” Wilson’s fingers went still, but he shifted uneasily on his feet. “One more thought. When you have your freedom, you’re not obligated to return to Arizona.” 

House felt queasy. “Wait. What about last night's scintillating foreplay? Were you softening me up before telling me?”

Color infused Wilson’s cheeks. “Scintillating, right. What other reason could there be?”

House pointed to Wilson’s left ear. “Your sick need for closure, Diamond Jim.” 

Suddenly, Wilson stood close to him, almost touching. House was about to narrow the gap when Wilson stopped him, pointing a finger at his chest. “A dying man is entitled to closure. Also, for saying whatever he wants. I love you, House. That’s without strings or conditions. I won’t feel any different if you don’t come back.”

House wrapped his hand tenderly around the back of Wilson’s neck. “C’mere.”

.

.

* * *

[ A Christmas Snoopy cactus](http://www.cactuslovers.com/tucson-christmas1.jpg)

.


	10. Chapter 10

_1992_

_Suitcase in hand, you asked for my address and phone number, promising with epic sincerity to return the bail money. Swearing we’d stay in touch._

_You were gone before I realized you had conveniently forgotten to tell me how to reach you._

~.~

.

.

“Not many attorneys get the chance to drink a toast to their client’s continuing good health after their death.” Stacy sipped from her glass. In the candlelight the wine shimmered like liquid garnets, the color matching her low-cut dress. “Greg, you hardly touched your steak. Aren’t you happy about your legal resuscitation? You haven’t smiled since you got here.”

“Loosely paraphrasing a friend, living is easy, hard time is slow death.” House sliced off a chunk of filet and moved it around the plate. “Said friend conveniently left out the part about wearing an ankle monitor.”

“Don’t blame James. He didn’t know about it. Neither did I. It was Toby’s idea. She said it would favorably impress the judge if you struck a temporary deal with the DA when you turned yourself in. She’s the criminal attorney, not me. As of tomorrow, I’ll join her as second chair, but Toby will be running the show.” 

Stacy played with her cross, unconsciously running it along the delicate chain. House was intrigued. The tell meant something was on her mind. “And…?”

“I should warn you, Ms. Toby Borland does not make the best first impression, and her courtroom strategy borders on the unorthodox. Don’t judge or try to interrupt her if she flies off on a tangent.” 

“My long lost daughter. Have you warned her about me? 

Stacy tilted her head, her hair brushing her shoulder as she regarded him. “I told her what she needed to know, and that you’d be on your best behavior. Don’t make a liar out of me.”

He poured more wine into their glasses. “Did you pass on my hint that the easiest way to win is by blackmailing the district attorney or the judge?” 

Laughing, she shrugged off the question. “Honestly Greg, you haven’t changed a bit. How does Wilson put up with you?” 

House scratched at an unrelenting itch on his shoulder. “He’s coming around to my way of thinking.” 

_“This is as far as I go. Security is straight ahead. Would we combust if we hugged?”_

“Greg?”

“What?”

“You keep disappearing on me.” She smiled sympathetically. “How’s he doing? I can never get a straight answer from him.” 

Lately, Wilson had shown more stamina, but it might have been because of the longer break between treatments. However, he had stumbled while getting into the taxi at the airport. “He’s doing alright.” 

She took her time nibbling on an unbuttered slice of bread. “That’s good.”

She had that inquisitive gleam in her eyes. Another question was about to spring from her lips. But her ability to read him almost as well as Wilson meant he better deadhead the conversation. The less time spent discussing his road trip and stay in Arizona the better. “What about the judge who will hear my case. Is he one of the good, bad or ugly?”

“Christmas week paid off. Burkhart can be tough on repeaters but has no patience with insignificant crime.” Her mouth expanded into a confident smile. “He’s not going to lock you up for clogging a toilet.” 

House considered the news while chewing on a snow pea. Sautéed lightly in oil and garlic, it retained its sweetness and still had its snap. “But I broke my parole.”

“As a first offender you should have been let off with a hefty fine and community service, or at worst, six months in a white collar prison. You did more than enough time. Toby will stress that in court.” She reached across the table, and stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. “Place your trust in Toby and me.”

* * *

.

_It's going to take some time to get used to calling you House in public._

“Or by 561443D, my old serial number,” House answered lightly. Entertained by Wilson’s long distance pillow talk, he toed off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.

_It won’t come to that…_

There was a gentle tap at the door. He had hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign outside the room, but the maid probably wanted to check if he needed more towels. He turned on his side and ignored it. 

_…As long as you don’t blow it by… being you._

“Did you speak to Stacy before calling me? I listened to her lecture during dinner.” Again, the knocking, but it was louder and more insistent. He covered the speaker. “If you have mints, family of four here, slide them under the door and go away!”

“Gregory?”

House sat at attention.

_It’s good advice. For once in your life follow—_

“Wilson, you scumbag, did you tell the succubus where I was staying?”

_Uh, who?_

“Yeah, I thought so.” With one hand clutching his cell and the other on his thigh, House went to the door. “You’ll pay for this. When you least expect it," he said in his most ominous voice, "I’ll…” and severed the call, but not before he heard a snicker hastily disguised as a cough.

He threw open the door and stood rooted to the carpet. “Mom.” 

“I didn’t bring mints, dear.” Blythe pulled a plastic bag full of airline-sized bottles of vodka and gin from her amorphous handbag. “Will these do?”

The thick drizzle outside had soaked her coat. She smelled of damp wool and lily of the valley. Her hug was firm but her touch tender. From habit he had an urge to complain when the embrace slopped into overtime, but barbed words escaped him and his will to breakaway fled.

***

.

“Sorry I couldn’t come to the hearing,” she said, pouring more vodka into her orange juice. “Thomas was leaving on a ten city book tour and needed help packing. By the time I arrived at the airport, the only available flight was late afternoon.”

“You didn’t miss anything.” House idly spun his glass on the tabletop, leaving an ever-widening puddle of water. “It was a matter of presenting certified documents. The judge wasn’t in a hurry to sign off until Stacy pointed out that reversing my death in the same year that I died was no less than a patriotic act. That way I could file and pay my income taxes on time.”

“Stacy was always a smart girl,” Blythe said agreeably, a little too much like a matchmaker.

“She’s still married to Mark, Mom. Happily.” 

“Of course, and you married Dominika.” Her face crinkled into a hopeful smile. “She spoke lovingly about you at the funeral.” 

“The grieving widow moved on with her life. She married her boyfriend and got knocked up. Stacy sent a letter advising her to redo the ceremony before she popped out a little Nika or Nike.” He hoisted his glass and watched the ice cubes bob in the vodka, thinking of a question to deflect her Harmony Dot Com mindset. “Is Thomas on the road promoting, ‘Sermons for Everyday Life?’”

“No. It’s a new one.” She puffed up with pride. “More Sermons for Everyday Life.”

“Catchy.”

“Gregory House,” Blythe squawked sharply like a ruffled peahen. “Wipe that smirk off your face, it’s unbecoming.”

That was his cue to cross his eyes. “Is this better?” 

She chuckled. All was well. “But let’s get serious. How is James?”

He tore open another bag of airline peanuts, pouring the contents into his mouth. His mother waited patiently for an answer. 

“He told you I was here. Didn’t you ask him when the two of you spoke?” 

“He said the chemotherapy wasn’t as bad as he expected and changed the subject. I suspect he didn’t want to go into details and remind me what John had gone through.” She sighed and shook her head. “Poor boy, he worked very hard consoling me and offering advice, telling me to hold onto your apartment as a rental property. And then he spent most of December preparing me for your return from the dead. I burst into convincing tears of joy, which were more from relief. I never had anyone deliver good news that awkwardly.”

“Bad news is his specialty. He’s a regular Mary Poppins.” House smiled slyly. “So, you got my message?”

“I did.” Blythe dug in her purse. “It’s here somewhere.” She beamed triumphantly when she found what she was searching for, a strip of photo booth photos, and placed it on the table. “At nine you still thought it was fun to hang around with your family. You loved our vacation to Virginia Beach. 

“I noticed it missing from my photo album after our visit to the hospital. I thought James had taken it. He made such a fuss poring over the photos with Thomas. But when it showed up in my mailbox in an unmarked envelope...” She looked up at the ceiling, apparently thinking. “In May? The bottom photo was missing, and there was no note of apology, which was very unlike James. I crossed him off the list of possible suspects, which left you.”

There was nothing remarkable about the pictures, except everyone was happy at the same time. He, his parents and Aunt Sarah were crammed into an arcade photo booth. They couldn’t stop laughing as they made funny faces at the lens each time they heard the buzzer. All these years and he hadn’t lost the knack of crossing his eyes. 

“Did you tell anybody?”

“If you mean, Thomas,” her face glowed with a Mona Lisa smile, “no, but I did confide in your Aunt Sarah. You have no idea how she took the news of your death. It affected her deeply.”

House continued to study the snapshots. He had kept the fourth tucked away in his backpack, but rarely pulled it out. “She didn’t come to my funeral.”

“You know your talented, gypsy aunt. She was traveling. Judging a piano competition. She’s in Taiwan right now and sends her love.”

_Talented aunt._ He noticed for the first time that Sarah did a credible imitation of strabismus. And while the photos were in black and white, the intense shade of her eye color matched his more than his own… He handed back the strip. 

Maybe it was talk about Dominika in the family way that got him thinking. “How old was Sarah when I was born, sixteen?”

“Yes. Both of you practically grew up together. When she visited she treated you like a younger brother,” Blythe answered with a too bright smile. 

“Why didn’t someone tell me Sarah was my mother?”

Blythe’s smile disappeared. “I’m your mother, Gregory, and don’t you forget it.” But her cheeks were flushed and eyes downcast. 

House wasn’t about to drop the subject, but he said softly, “You’re my mom, but not my biological mother.”

She nodded, still looking mortified. “When Sarah realized she was pregnant I was the only one she could turn to. Our parents would have thrown her out of the house if they knew. I invited her to California for an extended summer vacation. After five years of marriage, John and I hadn’t conceived, and I desperately wanted a baby. Living off-base made it easy for us to hide her condition.”

House sat back in his chair, absorbing the news. “What about Thomas?”

“Oh, Thomas.” She fluttered her hand. “He never met my sister. Shortly after our brief affair, he went to Germany on a one-year assignment. He never had a clue.”

“And Dad? He didn’t go ICBM on the idea?” 

“He came around when he realized how happy it would make me. Since Sarah was his sister-in-law, he felt a sense of obligation to help her and keep her secret.” She tenderly tucked the photos into her purse. “You have to understand it was the fifties. Everything was kept hush-hush.”

“Then who is my biological father?”

“I don’t know.” Blythe picked up one of the peanuts she had poured into a clean tissue. “Sarah would never reveal who he was.”

House shook his head. “So my birth was, and still is, shrouded in mystery.” 

“Much like your death, dear.”

He had privately believed all along that Wilson’s DNA testing was a scam to take the pressure off Thomas, but that theory just got blown out of the water. “Wait until I tell Wilson the news.”

“You and James are really obsessed with each other, aren’t you? Every conversation ends up about him. And the same with James.” Blythe released an exasperated sigh, and then her face lit up with an epiphany. “You and James?”

House wasn’t sure whether he was ready to admit the truth out loud. “Disappointed?”

“No, only in myself for not putting everything together sooner. You were always inseparable. And the way James ogled you when you pulled down your pants in the restaurant. Thomas said it was unnatural.”

She exhausted House with more questions until they alternated yawning. When he walked her to the door, she kissed his cheek and cupped his chin. “You were very much wanted by all of us, Gregory.”

He must have frowned.

“You were, but you weren’t an easy child. You didn't come with an instruction manual.”

* * *

.

Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he climbed the rain-slicked courthouse steps to where Stacy and his mother stood. When they passed through security, Blythe went to the courtroom while he and Stacy stayed in the lobby. She fussed with his tie and recited her list of warnings one more time.

“Remember, act normal. Not _you_ normal, _people_ normal.”

“You mean behave as if I had a frontal lobotomy?”

“Exactly. This isn’t a jury hearing, so the only person you need to impress is the judge. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. When you’re asked a question, take your time and look at Toby before answering in case she wants to object. Keep your answers brief and to the point, don’t embellish. Got it, Greg?”

He mouthed the instructions silently. “Okay, no wait, I can condense that down to, yessss.”

“Are you done?” She studied him like his mother had, but there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “All out of your system?”

He bowed curtly.

When she was satisfied with the knot, she led him down a corridor to a stark, polished granite bench. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “One more thing before we go in. When you take the stand Toby’s going to be tough on you. Remember, it’s better for her to bring up your past than the ADA. Don’t lose your cool. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for your mom, James, and me. Is that possible?”

Stacy always knew how to center him. “Yes.” 

“Alright. Let’s go inside and I’ll introduce you to Toby.”

***

.

Halfway through the direct examination his displeasure at that quirky little blonde barracuda, Toby, was only exceeded by his admiration. She was a credit to her fair-haired sisters. If she had been a doctor, he would have relentlessly pursued her to join his team.

He should have known from the start when the ADA eyed her warily. She flapped her pencil and would seemingly drift off, her head in the clouds over Chicago or Wichita when the ADA spoke, and then she’d snap back to the present, firing off down-to-the-marrow questions when she had the floor. She was a younger, prettier, real life, double X chromosome version of Colombo without the crumpled trench coat or cigar.

Her questions were like scalpels, resecting and exposing every misbehavior and misdemeanor. She didn’t stop until he had recounted driving his car into Cuddy’s dining room. She left him gutted and bleeding out in the witness chair. Stacy’s lecture was unnecessary. Under her knife, one-syllable answers were all he could manage.

When he had hit rock bottom, she asked, “Don’t you want to refute or explain anything, Dr. House?”

“No.”

“Why?” 

“Because it’s all true.”

“Your acquiescence shouldn’t be misconstrued as a boast, correct? Just the opposite?”

Ill at ease, House shifted in his seat.

“Yes or no, Dr. House?”

“Yes.”

She scribed a ring in the air with her pencil. “Would you say you were in the same frame of mind or worse when you turned yourself in to the authorities after the collision?”

“Yes.”

She punctured the invisible circle with the point of her pencil as if piercing a bull’s eye. “You waived your right to counsel and accepted the first deal the DA’s office offered? A one year term in a maximum-security prison?”

“Yes.”

She swiveled and stared at opposing counsel. “A harsh and unconscionable punishment.” 

The ADA stood up. “I object, Your Honor. The District Attorney’s office isn’t on trial here.” 

The judge, who was fiddling with one of the colorful fishing lures lined at the edge of his desk, didn’t look up. “Sustained. Watch yourself, Ms. Borland.”

She addressed Burkhart. “My apologies, Your Honor. But at the very most, Dr. House as a first offender and pillar of the medical community, belonged in a minimum-security prison.”

“I am inclined to agree with you, but Dr. House did commit a felony and the decision was within the parameters of the law. Please get to the point.” 

“I will, Your Honor.” She faced House. “You’ve heard the phrase, ‘A doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient?’” 

“Yes.”

“And you’re familiar with a similar one for the legal profession, ‘A lawyer representing himself has a fool for a client?’”

He wanted to squirm in his chair. “Yes.”

“But you’re far from a fool.” 

House was having doubts.

She pressed on. “You used the correctional system as a form of self-flagellation for your guilt, did you not?”

“Your Honor, I object. The questions are leading. The destruction of personal property was only the first in a line of offenses against the law. On the eve of his parole, Dr. House incited a riot and eight months more were tacked onto his sentence. At the hospital he was cited with felony vandalism for destroying the plumbing.”

Toby glared at the ADA. “Tacking an additional eight months onto an already inflated sentence is serving justice, Mr. Franks?” She then faced the judge. “Opposing counsel is getting carried away, Your Honor. We’re not interested in rehashing the first event. From the length of Dr. House’s sentence, he did his time and then some. As to the riot, Dr. House caused disorder in the prison so he could save a patient. Another example of putting other people’s lives before his.” She walked up to the bench and spoke with silky softness, “The same way Dr. House risked parole by leaving the state. He wasn’t skipping out on his parole. He was fulfilling his dying friend’s request to spend quality time together on a road trip.” 

House cast gimlet-eyed thanks at Stacy for providing Toby with mawkishly sentimental information. Stacy stayed straight-faced except for a barely perceptible blink of the eye.

“As to the DA’s charge of felony vandalism, I have a witness who will explain that it should never have been made.”

“Ms. Borland,” the judge finally set the fishing lure down, “you’re grandstanding. Remarks about Dr. House’s true intentions are better left for closing arguments, but I’m interested in what your witness,” he shuffled through papers, squinting at one of them, “Mr. Donato has to say.” 

“My apologies, Judge. I'll call Mr. Donato to the stand shortly, but at this time I’d like to introduce affidavits into evidence, attesting to Dr. House’s exceptional medical expertise and dedication.” Toby fetched a folder from her desk. House rolled his eyes when Foreman appeared among the onlookers, walking toward her with three files under his arm. One was very thick, at least two inches.

The thin ones she handed immediately to Burkhart. “Sworn statements from Dr. Adams who worked at the prison where Dr. House was incarcerated, and Dr. House’s friend, James Wilson, testifying to Dr. House’s willingness to sacrifice his career for their friendship.”

She thrust the heavy binder toward House. “Please look at this before I give it to the judge. They’re letters and dictated transcripts from your patients. Do you recognize them?”

The names meant nothing to him, but he recalled each case. The deeper into the binder he dug, the more yellow the paper. And like everything that occurred since he agreed to clear his name, Wilson’s fingerprints were all over it. The earliest date was 1998, when Wilson was hired.

While no one was ecstatic with their stay at the hospital or the procedures performed, they all admitted with varying degrees of gratitude that without him, they wouldn’t be alive. 

“Yes. Those were my patients.”

“Were you in any way involved with collecting the information?” 

“I didn’t know it existed.”

She offered it to the judge. 

Burkhart put on his reading glasses and solemnly flipped through the pages. “I’d like to read a sampling in my chambers. Let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

***

.

Foreman found him in the crowded hall and dangled House’s laminated ID between his fingers. “You dropped this in my office, under a table… leg.”

He didn’t take it. “If this is your way of offering me my old job, I’m not interested.”

“I’m not. The badge is inactivated,” Foreman said with a relaxed smile. “No offense House, but Chase is doing a decent job as head of Diagnostics. His batting average isn’t up to yours, but the lawsuits are incrementally lower.”

Suddenly, the reason for collecting testimonials clicked into place. Each document had a black timestamp with the legal department imprint in the corner. “Wilson was watching my back.” 

“I didn’t know anything about it until Stacy called me. The paralegal laughed when I showed up at her office. She called Wilson your legal biographer. Every few weeks he’d bring a large cup of her favorite coffee and contact information from former patients willing to go on record about how you saved them. He told Cuddy it would cut premiums on malpractice insurance and lessen her stress. I can’t imagine how much the insurance would have been without Wilson’s help.” Foreman crossed his arms. “By the way, how is—?

“He’s doing fine,” House said, tired of the question. “What about the team? Anybody falling in or out of love or just falling?” 

Before Foreman could reply, Stacy was by House’s side, tapping on her watch. “It’s time.”

“Well, I wish I could stay, but I'm already late for a staff meeting.” Foreman pulled him into an awkward hug. “Good luck, House,” he said with apparent sincerity. “If you get off, call me. I’ll check with my contacts and put in a good word.” 

House nodded and trudged into the courtroom. A thousand affidavits and Wilson’s due diligence weren’t enough to pull him out of the mess he had created. Burkhart might be sympathetic, but he didn’t appear moved by anything Toby said. His freedom hung on what this Donato guy had to say.

Before returning to the witness box, he took Stacy aside. “Is the hearing going the way you anticipated?” 

“Greg, stay calm,” she answered in her seen-it-all attorney voice. But House could read her face. Delicate worry lines etched her forehead. 

“Who is Donato?”

“Toby added him to the list of witnesses during the last break. I haven’t—“

The chatter around him muffled as the door to the judge’s chamber opened. 

“All rise.”

.

.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my special guest beta, the incredibly talented and awesome yarroway. <3
> 
> Hwshipper will return for #12. :)

_1992_

_Your out-of-tempo knock ruined my piano sonata._

_When I opened the door, you didn't come in. You stood in the hallway, proudly wearing the lipstick smudge on your collar as if it were a protective talisman._

_You stuffed the reimbursement check in my shirt pocket, then accused me of stalking. You demanded to know how I found out where you worked and lived. That no one else would send flowers, a box of condoms, and an anatomically correct teddy bear._

~.~

.

.

_House?_

"Free at last, free at last, Thank Toby almighty I am free at last."

_No jail time or community service?_

“Burkhart let me out with time served.” House went to the mini bar and unscrewed a split of champagne. 

_Stacy told me she found a first-rate criminal attorney…_

“Toby Borland rushed in where no hospital attorney dared to tread." He downed half the bottle in a silent toast. “Brought in a plumbing expert, a former building inspector, George Donato, who explained the diameter of the sewage pipes weren’t up to code. They were a quarter of an inch too small. An arena’s worth of tickets should have flowed through without incident. Foreman’s not gonna be a happy Dean of Medicine when he hears the news.” 

_So, it’s over?_

“The new charge was dismissed. If you don’t believe me, check your inbox.” He burped happily and took another gulp. “There are photos of my strikingly attractive ankles. Notable for what’s missing.” 

The phone went dead for a few seconds.

_You stole my argyles?_

House rolled his eyes. “Formerly yours. They’re now my lucky socks. Look again, Sherlock.”

A warm smile lit Wilson’s voice.

_No ankle monitor._

House basked in the simple statement, realizing he was feeling as effervescent as the sparkling wine.

_Congratulations, House. What are your plans? Stop by PPTH? Stay with your mother?_

“Wilson, we settled everything before I left.”

_I told you…_

“I heard you.”

His response was met with a heavy sigh, not with excuses, arguments, or barbed deflection. Something was wrong. “Everybody asked me how you’re doing,” House said slowly. And slower still, so every word would count, added, “How _are_ you doing?” There was no answer. “I can hear you fabricating. Don’t.”

_Mercedes came by to give me a hand with the house cleaning._

“You two on the outs after fighting over who scrubs the floors with Mop & Glo?”

A longer pause and a deeper sigh.

_That’s just it. I barely got the place dusted while she finished the rest._

“Fatigue.” House threw the now empty bottle in the trash and returned to the bed with a chilled bottle of vodka his mother left behind. “It could be nothing. A change in corticosteroids could fix you right up.”

_Or it could be something. There’s nothing you can do here, House. Spend time with Blythe or heckle Chase. I’ll report back after I see Bishop and view the scan._

“Bring it and the test results home with you. I’m booked on the first available flight to Phoenix, but it isn’t until the 3rd. I’ll miss your appointment, but will be back by evening.”

_There’s no reason to hurry, House._

“Yeah, no reason. See you Thursday.” House ended the call.

* * *

.

The plane’s final descent through a mass of dark clouds translated into a painful walk from the terminal to the parking lot. The air, dense with humidity, muffled the flight traffic. Heavy raindrops spattered his jacket, threatening to unleash a downpour any moment.

Barely one step ahead of the storm, by the time House reached the bungalow, the Camry’s dusty windshield was spangled with wind-dried droplets.

Hand poised on the doorknob, he hesitated. On a gloomy day like today, the light from a lamp or the widescreen should have shone through a window. Wilson’s return to chemo must have hit him hard or the scan of the tumor showed an incremental jump that had left him depressed.

“S’up?” After all this time he had never noticed the echo bouncing off the angled ceiling. “Wilson?” Expecting to find a blanketed hillock in the center of the mattress, he went to Wilson’s corner. The bed was neatly made. In the bathroom, the soap, towels, and toothbrush were dry. Acid churned in House’s stomach. 

What had gone wrong since they had spoken? Why hadn’t he or Mercedes called? He realized the answer before fully withdrawing his phone from his jeans. He’d behaved like a good little passenger when the flight attendant requested powering off phones. Then in his haste to be the first one off the plane, he never bothered turning it on. He stared at it impatiently while it returned to life. There were two messages. It took two passes to pin the hoarse voice fading in and out as Wilson's. He salvaged “don’t,” and “hospital” from the garbled transmission.

The second was from Mercedes, speaking in her take-no-prisoners voice. “Ed, or Dr. House, or whomever you are, don’t budge from the cottage. Little Mike will come get you.”

There was no trace of the white, super pickup sitting outside; House wasn’t waiting. 

Gravel sprayed from under the rear wheels of his Camry as House charged toward the gate; however when he got there his escape route was blocked by five tons of steel and iron and Little Mike. Arms raised, he signaled House to stop.

Face grim, Mike spoke sparingly, “Gram’s orders. Get out of the car, you’re coming with me.”

“What’s happened to Wilson?” House asked, dry-mouthed.

“Wish I could say, but I don’t ask questions when Gram gives me orders.”

Racking up a half dozen speeding violations, the truck swayed and skidded around corners, nipping through intersections as yellow lights changed to red. House had to grudgingly admit, he couldn’t have driven faster.

The route was rendered more colorful with shortcuts through a Taco Bell and a strip center that backed onto a residential area a stone’s throw from the hospital, which ruled out the cancer center as their destination. Part of him suspected or wanted to believe that he was being punked. That Little Mike would deposit him in front of Denny’s where Wilson and Mercedes would be waiting inside, prepared to celebrate his triumphant return. His pipe dream went up in smoke when Mike whooshed right past the coffee shop. Making a hard right at the next block, a tire scraped against the curb, and the truck jerked to stop at the hospital entrance.

House’s heart beat faster as Mercedes met him in the lobby, her arms spread wide, her “poor little lamb” expression on her face. 

He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t breathe. Her arms wrapped around him in a protective hug. 

“We were all shocked,” she whispered.

Wilson was dead. 

“The news came out of the blue.”

His mind roamed wild, jumping to conclusions: A stroke. Heart attack. Cardiac arrest. Wilson took matters into his own hands.

A DNR was on file.

“There, there. No tears, niño. The bad times are over.” She broke contact except for the firm grip on his hand, and led him down a hall. “We’ll visit the chapel before seeing him. It’s on the way.”

He wrenched out of her grasp. “Prayers won’t help. Show me his body.” 

“His body?” Mercedes face crinkled in confusion, then her eyes opened wide. “Ay, Dios mio!” She placed her hands over her heart. “Please forgive me. What did I say that gave you the impression James wasn’t alive?” 

“Could be keywords like, shock, bad times, chapel.” Trembling from adrenaline, he leaned heavily on his cane. “What were you talking about in the lobby?”

“Why, the tumor shrinking, of course.” She threaded her arm through his, urging him forward. “He’s in ICU. A hotshot surgeon friend of Bishop’s was visiting and offered his services. James hasn’t awakened yet. We’re still waiting for the biopsy report on the surrounding tissue.”

***

.

With IV fluids flowing and respirator pumping, sedated, wan, underweight, and hairless, Wilson was the polar opposite image of vigorous good health. And yet, his chance of survival was astronomically higher than when he strutted to his bike, clutching his new helmet.

House had finished studying the medical chart for the fifth time when the privacy curtain swung open. Two gray haired men in lab coats stepped within the draped enclosure. 

“Ed, heard you were here.” Bishop handed him a folder. “The nurses told me you demanded to see the scan.” 

House held it to the light. The tumor had shrunk to a third of its size. Better than he had anticipated the super-chemo would do.

“I’ll explain anything you have trouble understanding.”

Stationed on the opposite side of the bed and blissfully quiet until now, Mercedes let out a well-timed snort from behind her crossword puzzle magazine and looked up. “What’s a seven letter word for idiot starting with a 'J'?” 

“Jackass.”

“Yes!” She penned it in with undisguised mischievous glee. “Thank you kindly.”

“Anytime,” House answered with Sunday best cordiality.

“Why Carl, don’t you know who you’re talking to?” said Bishop’s companion. He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Warren Straub. I performed the surgery on your friend. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Perlmutter. I had the privilege of hearing you speak at a pharm conference a few years ago.”

“You must be mistaken,” Bishop said politely. “This is Ed Vogler.”

House didn’t get up from his chair. “You’re both right. I’ve been called Perlmutter, Vogler, and much worse. Presently, I go by House. It’s easier to spell.”

The doctors’ mouths hung open while Mercedes snickered quietly. 

Niceties out of the way, House held up his hand. “The biopsy?”

Straub produced it, beaming. “We got everything. It was a mystifying but very gratifying case.”

“Miraculous,” chirped Mercedes.

“In my professional opinion it was…” House shrugged, “boring, until today.”

* * *

.

“S’up?” House asked when Wilson appeared in the doorway. The arm not tethered to the IV pole waved at him impatiently.

In one swoop, House rescued the cup of lime jello from the lunch tray and rolled off the bed into the visitor’s chair. Thickly upholstered, the fabric was lollipop red covered with golden lariats and jaundiced cowboys jouncing on bucking broncs. He had commandeered it from peds, bribing a janitor to drop it off to the room. 

Head down, he feasted on the gelatin while registering every one of Wilson’s hums and huffs that went into scaling the bed and arranging the covers. A soft sigh from the mountain of pillows signified “mission accomplished.” 

“Speak. I didn’t come across town to watch you stare at the ceiling.”

“I have to entertain you? Didn’t stealing my dessert make it worth your while?”

“It’s sharing, not stealing.” House realized too late his breezy reply contained a Freudian slip.

The way Wilson’s eyes shifted from side to side, he had caught it. “When did the rules change?”

“I don’t know.” House scraped slowly at the emerald streaks clinging to the inside of the plastic container. “About five deals and three compromises ago? When the DeLorean hung a U-ey at the second star on the right?”

“We never drove the DeLorean.”

“We should take it for a spin before we leave.”

“Yeah,” Wilson said, a promise of a smile budding on his mouth. “I’d like that.” His eyes began to flutter close.

Settling in while Wilson napped, House propped his legs on the edge of the bed and rifled through the stack of medical journals he had swiped from an unlocked office. About to read how climate change was affecting infectious disease, he heard Wilson shift in the bed and clear his throat. House lowered his glasses. "Yes?"

“Did you ask Bishop when he’s releasing me?”

“I _told_ him to have the paperwork ready by Friday.”

“Are you giving him a hard time?” 

“No worse than when I persuaded him to put you on dexamethasone.”

“Which means,” Wilson rubbed his eyes, “you did. I have follow-up treatments with him, you know.”

“For once, his chemo and radiation strategy is actually decent.” House flipped to the next page and skimmed it while mumbling, “I went easy on him.”

Wilson stretched cautiously, wincing a little, and then placed one hand behind his head. “It’ll be good to get home.”

“Not with Mercedes knocking on our door. I can’t watch my soaps without her showing up every afternoon with a dessert.”

“Turning away free food… who are you?”

“Have a wedge of deep dish, I-told-you-so, dearie.”

“Oh.” Wilson grinned. “That must make your stomach ache.”

“Wait until you she starts in on you.”

“If it makes her happy, why not? I can’t provide a medical reason why the tumor shrank.” 

House closed the magazine. “Dexamethasone is also used in hormone therapy.”

“It wouldn’t reduce the tumor to that extent in such a short period.” Wilson flapped his hand. “Unless… could it have caused some odd kick-start?”

House shook his head. He wanted to take credit and be a hero, but the answer was too pat and without reliable evidence to back it up. One day researchers would have an explanation, but for now it remained a mystery. “You’re not considering pinning this on your flirtation with God? If Mercedes gets wind of it, she’ll feed me tamales stuffed with crow.”

“Tell her about Yom Kippur? No. But don’t give me a hard time if I decide to go back next year.” Wilson harrumphed a derisive laugh.

“What?”

“It hasn’t quite sunk in that there’s a next year in my future.” 

House studied his hands. “What about the past? Did New Orleans or Christmas still happen?” 

Wilson covered his mouth, apparently mulling over the question. 

“They happened, but…” 

House bowed his head. He didn’t like “buts.” They never sided in his favor. 

“Your death and my cancer. We changed. Not a lot but for the better.” Wilson touched his pierced earlobe. “We’re getting a second chance, and I don’t want to blow it.”

House placed his feet on the floor and gripped his cane. Wilson wanted another go at the rose-covered cottage, wife, and two-and-a-half kids.

“House, I want to be with you, but I don’t want to return to New Jersey.”

Relief flooded through him like a double dose of Vicodin. “That’s it? What made you think I wanted to?”

“Your career? Your apartment? You don’t like change?”

“As you pointed out, I did change.” House scratched at the stubble under his chin. “Except for a few growing pains along the way, I’m not complaining.” He eased his feet back onto the bed. “Wilson. What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

.

.

.


	12. Chapter 12

_1992_

_I theorized you didn’t show up at my door just to deliver the check. You could have mailed it. And icy silence would have driven your point home better than sputtering righteous indignation._

_While you went on jabbering, I leaned against the doorframe, admiring the artful strand of hair that draped over your forehead._

_Eventually, your mouth slowed to 25 miles per hour, and the pointing finger of truth dropped to your side. Then you shrugged and said you were hungry and did I know a place where we could get a good pizza._

~.~

.

__  
**Spring**  


.

House canted his hip and leaned on his cane, striking a pose of sheer disgust for tradition’s sake. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I am.” Wilson snatched the drawing out of his hands, carefully slipping it into his backpack. “It’s a souvenir of our stay.”

“Take the widescreen, not a drawing with pink hearts, stick figures, and bad spelling. H-U-N-Y-M-O-O-N-R-S, my ass.”

“Unfortunately,“ Wilson drawled, “the widescreen won’t fit. And the sign was misspelled thanks to you.”

“I was teaching the kids a valuable lesson about not trusting strangers.” House hitched around the counter and opened the fridge to check if there was any leftover pizza, but Wilson had cleared everything out. The shelves were bare and pristine. “Is there anything to eat?”

“Jerky and granola bars and stuff. Check the side pockets of your bag.” Wilson ran a hand through the dusting of curly hair on his head. “It was sweet of Mercedes’ great-grandkids to make it for us, House.”

House rooted around in his knapsack, finding healthy snacks but but none of the good “stuff” until he snagged a baggie filled with jellybeans. He shoved a handful in his mouth. “Technically, we’re not married.”

“Technically, we switched to the honeymoon rental plan after my treatments were finished.”

“And we made a deal when your beard and pubes grew in, you’d turn back into a guy, Janet.” 

“Did I?” Wilson asked, eyes twinkling with residual mischief from earlier that morning. His arms went around House’s waist and he leaned forward, sowing a kiss.

Breathing in Wilson’s scent, House reciprocated with hungry passion. He pressed close, gently squeezing Wilson’s sprouting love handles until he heard a slight rumbling hum in his throat, making him the best squeaky toy ever. As their bodies molded into one, the bulge in Wilson’s jeans pushed into his. House groaned when Wilson slowly pulled away.

“Keep the Picasso, you cocktease.”

Needing time to catch his breath and cool down, he shoved the bag of candy into his knapsack and checked that each latch was secured. Wilson was doing the same with his. When House was done, he slung the pack over his shoulder, and grabbed his helmet and cane. “Ready?”

“What about your key?” Wilson asked as he removed his from his keychain. 

“It’s on the counter.” 

Wilson placed his next to it and then picked up his gear as well as the guitar case leaning against the side of the couch.

“I shouldn’t let you touch my new guitar,” House muttered, shuddering over the memory of what Wilson did to his Gibson.

“You’re running out of hands.” Wilson gripped the handle securely. “Trust me, House. After paying for the options you wanted—Brazilian Rosewood, ebony, inlay, and God knows what, I’ll treat it like a baby.” 

“Just treat it like a guitar and not a kidnap victim.”

Standing with his shoulder touching Wilson's, he gazed one last time at the lofty ceiling, the kiva, and the cushy couch. 

“I can’t remember ever locking the door,” Wilson said in a hushed tone.

“ _La Casita Encantada_ was a safe place.”

They hung about a little longer until Wilson huffed a breath and opened the door. 

As they crunched down the driveway House said, “ _Aishiteru_.”

“Commanche?”

“No, you idiot. Can’t you recognize Japanese?” House wanted to say “I love you” in mother English, but wasn’t ready. Maybe he never would be. The phrase had become trite. Sprinkled as freely as table salt, it was as dear as saffron. Meanwhile, he could say it under the guise of a language lesson. “It means, ‘Where are my pants?’”

“I guessed right yesterday. Navajo.”

“You guessed Navajo three days in the row, forcing me to choose a phrase in Navajo to shut you up. New rule. No repeats.”

“Ai-shit-tur-o.” Wilson recited, effectively disemboweling it. “When will I ever have a need to use it?” His eyes danced with good humor and something else.

House had a feeling Wilson was onto him. “You’re always dropping trou when we’re together. You can ask me.”

There was no sign of Mercedes until they reached their bikes. She and Little Mike materialized suddenly through one of the many invisible gates in the wall. 

“Boys, I hate to see you go.” Mercedes gave Wilson a bear hug.

She was about to do the same to House, but he took her hand and murmured, “Gracias por su hospitalidad, señora” before he kissed it. It was the first time he had seen her blush.

Little Mike shook Wilson’s hand first. When he came to House, he pumped away. “The Galaxie is already pining away for you, compadre.”

House eyed his tricked out, royal blue, ‘48 Harley. “If you hadn’t found the panhead, I’d be inconsolable.”

“No problem.” Little Mike grinned. “It belonged to an old friend. His family wanted it to go to a good home.”

“Thanks for everything.” Wilson handed the guitar to Mercedes. “Especially babysitting House’s pet. We’ll send for it when we settle into a place or when we return for Christmas.”

“The whole block of December is reserved in your names. Come whenever you want.” She tilted her head like an inquisitive bird. “So where are you headed? You’ve been awfully close-mouthed about your destination.”

“Nowhere special,” Wilson answered casually, climbing onto his bike. “Just going where the road takes us.”

“I know you have a destination in mind,” she shouted over the Harleys’ thunderous roar. “House?”

He buckled his helmet. “It’s Wilson’s call.” Applying more gas, he revved the engine. “I’m just his bitch.”

She shook her head and laughed, then cupped her hands over her mouth so she could be heard over the din. “Send me a postcard!”

Alongside Wilson, he touched his helmet in a salute before driving under the porte cochère and losing sight of his former landlady in his side view mirror. Their motors echoed off the stucco walls and archway as if they were in the middle of a war zone. From the gate until they reached the main road, they drove single file. At the stop sign House waited until Wilson caught up. 

“Decision time, Wilson. Where are we going?”

One corner of Wilson’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “As if you didn’t know.”

House nodded. “East to New Orleans.” Inching his bike forward into the intersection, he signaled left, and spoke over his shoulder. “Follow me, Wilson. We're going to the Promised Land.”

.

.

.

* * *

**Complete:** [Intros to the chapters: House & Wilson's backstory.](http://srsly-yes.livejournal.com/229875.html)


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